


comedy jokes

by hupsoonheng



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Car Accidents, Disability, F/F, Frottage, I REALLY DON'T KNOW FEEL FREE TO SUGGEST TAGS SO I CAN GET RID OF THIS CAPSLOCK ONE, M/M, Miscommunication, Netflix and Chill, New York City, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Character, Trans Steve Rogers, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 76,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7471254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I don't know what some of these are," you admit. "Should he be clean cut or a jock? Is Steve a daddy?"</i>
</p><p> </p><p>bucky and natasha prank steve by installing grindr on his phone, complete with profile and push notifications. what they don't expect is for steve to use the app as god and joel simkhai intended, which is to meet a male model, who happens to be named sam wilson. who also happens to be the dude who would not laugh once during bucky's standup comedy set. </p><p>featuring sam wilson in crop tops, bucky barnes as wide beef, and natasha romanov in more than just a supporting role</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bucky

**Author's Note:**

> i mean to work on something else today, but i've just been SO EXCITED about this au that i decided to start it now. i was even going to post a bucky chapter and sam chapter together to start off, like a season premiere 1hr special, but you know what? you get cliffhangers instead! 
> 
> also the E rating kicks in in chapter 2, so, you know... now you know.

Making a Grindr profile for Steve turns out to be the most fun you've had in a month. It's Natasha's idea, actually, but she comes over so you two can craft it together, wielding a bottle of vodka with a Cyrillic label you can barely read, straight from Brighton Beach. 

"Okay, so," Natasha says, once you've gotten past the boring part of making a fake email to confirm the new account, "are we using his real name for this?" 

Steve is in the habit of leaving his phone behind, and even dumber, he doesn't even have a pass code on it. _What do I have on my phone that anyone would care about?_ he's said whenever you bring it up. On some level, he has a point; almost all his photos are just of him at the gym, one of which you're cropping to use as his profile pic. 

"Maybe just his first name," you say as you set a profile pic of Steve doing squats. From the front, so you can see his face, because you're not classless. Not _that_ classless, anyway. 

"Write 'Professor Hot Bod' for the headline." Natasha reaches for her glass, throws back the whole thing and smacks her lips like it's a refreshing lemonade, and not weapons grade booze. "Come on, Bucky." 

"I can only do one thing at a time," you grumble, dropping Steve's phone on the bed between you so you can accept the glass she's holding out. Only one arm, after all. You down half the glass before you're wheezing. "Ahh! Jesus _Christ_ but that shit burns." 

"Don't be a wuss," Natasha says with a smirk as she pulls the phone her way. Probably her real game all along. 

"Well, we can do better than Professor Hot Bod," you say as you reach to put your glass on the bedside table, groaning. "He's not even a teacher, so I don't know why you're going for that one." 

"He teaches stuff," she says, laying down on her tummy and locking her ankles while she taps on the screen. 

"Self-defense classes at the women's center. That's not really qualification for even an ironic professor. Plus I expected better from you." 

"Okay, then what, smart guy?" 

You take the phone back from her, deleting the headline she's entered. "'Shy but adventurous' is _actually_ going to get messages, Nat. Don't you know anything about men?" 

"I try not to," she snorts. "Anyway, I thought the point was just to prank him, not get him an actual date. Or hookup, or whatever." 

"It's part of the experience," you say. "Age 31, height six-oh, weight, uhh..." 

"Even two hundred," Natasha says, like that's normal to know. 

"Ohhhhkay, two-zero-zero," you say, eyebrows climbing toward your hairline. You can barely remember the last time you weighed as little as two hundred pounds. "Race is white, currently single, looking for..." You look at Natasha. "How bad should we make this?" 

"What's their polite terminology for one night stands?" 

You tap, grinning. "Looking for Right Now. Body type is..." You type a few different options before settling. "Jacked. Should we put him in a tribe?" 

"I love racist terminology," she drawls, flipping herself over so she can scoot next to you and sit up to see the screen. "What are the options?" 

"I don't know what some of these are," you admit. "Should he be clean cut or a jock? Is Steve a daddy?" 

"You're not much of a gay man, are you?" Natasha snickers as she takes the phone from you, scrolling up and down. "They've got trans as an option on here." 

"I think that's going to make it less of a prank and more of a dick move," you say, leaning over her shoulder. "Make him clean cut. He's too pure to be anything else. And anyway, who said I was gay? I kissed you, didn't I?" 

"Once, in seventh grade, and it was bad. Really bad." She scrolls down. "The About Me is the best part." 

"It wasn't..." You can't even deny it. Like a lot of other thirteen year old boys, your idea of a good kiss back then was to open your mouth as wide as it could go. 

"And then you kissed more boys than I can count on my fingers and toes." She puts the phone on her knee closer to you, so you'll stop craning your neck. 

"Bisexual with a gay lean," you grumble. "Anyway." 

The description you decide on together goes something like: 

_I'm your friendly neighborhood Twunk just looking to get out there! I've been really shy but I'm ready for anything. Not looking for anything serious. Just want some sweaty fun. No racists, no macho men._

"Twunk?" Natasha asks, cackling. 

"It's a thing," you say, shrugging. 

You hear the jingle of keys at the front of the apartment, and Natasha snatches the phone out of your hands. 

"Nat, what are you doing? Steve's home!" you hiss, falling over when you try and fail to grab it back. 

"There's no point in setting up the app," she hisses back, "if you don't turn on banner notifications!" 

The lock turns. "Okay, well hurry the fuck up!" 

"Don't rush _me_ , Barnes. You can't rush a Russian." She laughs quietly at her own joke as her fingers fly over the phone's screen. "There. Done." She darts out of the room as the front door starts to creak open, and hurls the phone into Steve's bedroom next door. You don't hear anything break, so it must have landed on his bed. 

"Hey, Nat's here!" Steve says with sincere joy as he locks the door behind him. 

"With vodka," she says as you come out of your room into the living room, holding the bottle up on cue. 

"Oh, I dunno, I've got to be up early for work tomorrow," Steve says as he drops his duffel by the couch. "I've got some seven o'clock appointments at the gym." 

"Oh, please, like you even get hangovers, you ubermensch," Natasha says. "Pff." 

"Maybe just a little," Steve says. Natasha is pulling a third glass out of the cabinet before he even finishes his sentence, and pouring it by the time he picks his duffel back up. "Jesus, Nat, let a man get settled in before you pour him hard liquor." 

"Okay, go put your shit away, then," she says as she trots back into your room to grab the glasses you left behind. She refills her glass, and tops off yours, eyeing you as she does. 

"Oh, hey, I was wondering today where my phone was," Steve's voice says from inside his bedroom. "Guess I left it at home." 

"Guess you did," you say, taking advantage of his absence to giggle into your hand. When he comes back out into the living room, he hasn't brought his phone out with him, and you hide your lack of a straight face by knocking back a third of your glass. 

"You're not very good at being a millenial, Steve," Natasha says as she hands Steve his glass. "You're supposed to not be able to breathe without your phone." 

"I dunno." Steve shrugs. "You guys are my friends, and I see you both all the time. And I see Sharon at work. I don't really need it except for, I dunno, emergencies, I guess." 

"That's sweet." She smiles, wide and closed mouth, and then opens up to pour alcohol down her throat. "Come on, guys, if we're gonna drink, let's drink." She tops her glass off, then bashes her glass against yours, then Steve's. "Поехали!" 

"Whatever you just said!" you agree, clinking back against her glass right before you all knock back your drinks. 

The bottle doesn't get finished, because it's huge, but you definitely do. When you wake up, groggy and groaning, the first thing you see is Natasha splayed on the other side of your bed, pants off and with a thick line of drool down the side of her face. You should get your phone for this prime piece of blackmail. 

Of course, when you get your phone, you end up seeing the time, and panic wakes up the rest of your aching brain. 

"Shit! Shit!" Your loud cursing wakes Natasha with a jolt, and she nearly falls off the side of the bed, looking around with bleary eyes. "I'm late, I'm _so_ late—" 

"Nobody told you to drink on a work night," Natasha sighs, letting her head drop back as you crash around your room, searching through your three different floordrobe piles for a uniform shirt that will pass the sniff test. "Who let me fall asleep with my bra on?" 

"You told Steve to drink on a work night," you say with an accusatory glare, putting on pants with alternating yanks of the waistband. You've been one-armed long enough you can do up the fly without thinking about it, at least. 

"Are you Steve?" she snorts, tucking her hands under her back and fiddling until her bra pops open. " _I've_ got the day off, so I'm just gonna sleep in over here, if you don't mind," she says, pulling her bra out through the collar of her shirt and tossing it six inches shy of the nearest floordrobe. 

"Yeah, enjoy the sheets I haven't washed in three months," you mutter, finally finding a red polo that's the least smelly, and you pull it on. It's the largest size ordered by your job, and it still fits tight; it's a constant competition as to whether it's more uncomfortable in the chest or around your belly. 

"Done worse," she says, eyes already closed. 

Steve, of course, is long gone, probably having gotten up feeling daisy fresh at some unholy hour to go teach people how to keep proper form doing deadlifts, or something. You steal one of his protein bars out of the fridge on your way out, and barely remember to lock the door behind you. 

"Late again, _Jimmy_ ," your manager growls as you barrel into the restaurant. He's not the first person to call you a nickname you never agreed to, and he won't be the last, but god, it's grating. 

"Sorry, overslept my alarms," you pant, heading right for the kitchen. Not that you remember setting any alarms. 

"Yeah, sure. Overslept, again." He follows you through the swinging door. "You're on thin ice, you know that? You're a goddamn busboy. Don't act like you're not replaceable." 

"Who're you gonna find that's as charming as me?" You find your punch card in the mess by the clock, take out all the ways you wanna kick your manager's ass in slamming down real hard on the giant button on top. It produces a crisp red time stamp that's halfway on the wrong day because you didn't have a second hand to hold it steady. 

"How about literally everyone else in New York?" the sous chef calls out, and the dishwasher guffaws in response. 

"Anyway, Jimmy, there's some mats out back need serious hosing down after what happened last night," the manager says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the back door. "Think you can manage that much?" 

"What happened last night?" you ask as you pass him to head for the back door. This isn't even part of your job description. 

"Apparently booze, for you. Phew!" The manager waves his hand back and forth in front of his face. "Guess I know why you couldn't get in today." 

"Hey. It could be worse. I could be hungover," you say, pointing back at him and ignoring the way your head throbs with every word you speak. 

"Could be," the manager says with a snort, and then you're in the tiny concrete back yard, closing the door behind you. 

What happened to the mats, you find out, is that someone spilled an unholy amount of soup on them. And not just any soup—the sausage and shrimp gumbo, left out overnight, which means that there's a good sized cloud of flies buzzing around them. You sigh long and deep, thinking about how you don't even know why you wear a uniform when you're relegated to this shit, about how much your manager doesn't even like you or this wouldn't be here, and about how you've _got_ to step up your creative game, or at least find a better job. Then you start unwinding the hose. 

Your creative game, specifically, is the underground comedy circuit. Or well, you call it underground to sound cooler, but it's really just whatever bars doing comedy nights will take you. Tonight, in fact, you've got a gig, which is the biggest factor in not letting your coworkers' microaggressions get to you today. You have enough time after you get out of work to run home, take an actual shower and put on clean clothes you actually like that actually fit, and psyche yourself up before you head out. 

Your friends always sit in the back at your gigs, mostly because Natasha always gets there first and Steve follows her lead, and she says the back makes for better heckling. You greet them as you enter the bar's side room, wrapping your arm around their shoulders one at a time. 

"Sorry about the awkward side hug, but, you know," you say, which earns you a solid punch in your good shoulder from Natasha. 

"For luck," she says, features and voice both flat. "Since you'll need it." 

"I'm glad I always have the support of my friends," you sigh as you sit between them. Steve claps a hand on your other shoulder, squeezes for assurance. 

You're fourth in line on tonight's bill. The first comedian to go on gets decent laughs, with jokes about what it means to go from being a lesbian in the midwest to being a lesbian in New York. The second comedian gets more crickets than anything; he says something about not understanding women, and Natasha cups her hands around her mouth just to yell _Is there anything you understand?_ That gets laughs at a volume nothing else this dude has said has gotten so far. Oh, it'd be so easy to follow that act. 

Predictably, the third comedian gets uproarious laughter, to the point where even Steve has to wipe tears from the crinkles of his eyes. 

And you're up next. 

"Hey, so, I'd give you guys a hand for coming out tonight," you say as you jog up onto the stage, after being introduced as _Bucky Barnes from Bay Ridge, the king of almost-alliteration_ , "but as you can see, I've only got one left." You wiggle the fingers holding the mic, and there's a nice little wave of laughter that loosens some of the tightness in your chest. 

"You mean one right!" Natasha bellows from the back of the room, and the wave of laughter ratchets up into one big guffaw. 

From there you tell one of your five obviously fake stories about how you lost your arm, this time going with the _So when they say don't hold the doors on the subway, they really mean it!_ story. You cycle through a handful of puns—and yes, you use that one, too—all related to arms and hands. You know, like how it's useful— _handy_ , even—to always have a sight gag _on hand_. You can count on your _fingers_ the number of times these puns haven't worked out for you. You're always _armed_ with good puns, but if someone doesn't like any of them, that's alright. You won't _knuckle_ under; you can take a little _elbowing_. 

So far, so good, honestly. It's a good crowd. They're giving you good reactions, even if no one's howling or crying with laughter like that last person. 

Except for this one guy, right up front. 

You roll into a bit about how customers usually deal with the sight of you at work, especially when you're rolling up with a bussing cart to grab all their dirty dishes, and you have to work hard to not be distracted by this guy. He's sitting at a table with one other person, and in this moment, you could not perceive of a better pair of people to deserve each other. The guy he's with is white, short, and his goatee is shaved into a shape that's just a tick over the line into douchiness; he never outright laughs at your jokes, but he does at least snort and snicker. Better than this dude; dressed in high-waisted pants and a black boxy crop top that shows just a slim stripe of brown skin, almost too fashion-forward, and glowering at his phone. When he does look up, it's only to glower in your general direction. The absolute picture of someone who wants to be anywhere else. 

When you bow out, it's to just enough applause to make you feel alright about yourself, but your body is still riddled with tremors when you go to take your seat with Steve. Natasha is gone—already on her way to the stage, of course, because she's next on the bill. 

Steve pushes his phone toward you while the MC talks up Natasha. "So, Buck, I got this interesting notif just about as soon as Nat got up," he says, swiping down to reveal his notifications. "Gee whiz, uh, I sure don't remember installing Grindr on my phone." He leans his head on his fist, the sarcasm painted all over his features. 

"It's okay, Steve, you don't have to make a big deal out of wanting to be sexually adventurous and make up this whole thing of not knowing how it got on your phone," you say, a little too quickly. "Oh look, Nat's getting onstage!" Thank god. 

Natasha's sets are always a little weird. Her favorite joke, which she usually trots out second, goes something like _You know, random guys like to ask me my bra size, and I think that's so sweet of them, because bras are expensive and they're clearly looking to buy me some new ones, but when I take a dude's wallet so I can go shopping, he acts like that's not what he was looking for all along, and just makes it weird!_ It gets a fair amount of laughs from women in the audience, but it's always mixed results with the men. And that pretty much describes her entire act. 

Steve is a well-raised boy for someone whose only active parent died right after high school graduation, so he ignores the issue of his notifications during Natasha's set, laughing loud and clapping hard like the good friend he is. He finishes off his requisite single beer while you order your third, and by the time Natasha comes back to the table, that second beer is starting to properly hit you, make you a bit tipsy. 

So it's a surprise all over again when, after the show, Steve brings up the mystery notifications again. 

"We installed Grindr on your phone," Natasha says immediately. "The jig is up. Wow, you caught us." 

"We? Both of you?" Steve looks at you, then Natasha, then you again as he walks between you down the street. 

"Who exactly did you think it was? Would Bucky be so diabolical on his own?" she asks. 

"...Maybe," Steve says, narrowing his eyes at you. 

"I'm not diabolical, I'm your best friend," you say, staggering just a touch. Four beers means all the shakes are gone, but it also means Steve has to help you keep your balance when you're built like a lopsided tank. 

Steve opens up his own profile, ignoring the amount of messages he already has, which you both expected and didn't. "What's a twunk? Is that what I am now?" 

"A hunk who acts like a twink," you mumble. 

"I've never in my life acted like a twink." He scrolls while you try and fail to think of examples of Steve acting like a twink. Maybe he's got you on that one. 

"You look like an extra large twink, how about that?" you say, but Steve's not listening anymore. 

"So you expected, what, I would just be horrified right down to my Puritan core, and delete the app after you guys got your yuks?" Steve asks, glancing at both of you. 

"Pretty much," Natasha says, nodding. "I mean, you're not actually that, you know..." 

"What? Adventurous, like it says in my profile?" He holds up the phone to her, in case she forgot what she helped to write. 

"She's saying you don't really date. Like, at all. You don't go out," you clarify, as much as you can with the slurring that keeps happening on the left side of your mouth. "You don't fuck men." 

"Well, it's a little hard, you know, when you're not the standard package!" Steve says with a huff. "I mean, look—" Mister Discourse has got to correct himself. "In most ways, I know, I am. I'm white, blond-haired and blue-eyed for chrissakes, I go to the gym—" 

"We know what you meant," you say with a flap of your hand, which upsets your balance again because you did it too vehemently. Steve catches you by the wrist, pulls you back on track. 

"Well, anyway," Steve says as he lets go of you, "I'm _not_ going to delete the app." 

"No?" Natasha's head whips around, her lips curled with intrigue and surprise. 

"No. I'm going to use the app as intended, and I _am_ going to be adventurous." He stops for a moment, stands real straight and looks off into the middle distance. "I am!" 

"Alright, Jesus, we believe you," you say with a groan. "Come on, don't stop or we'll miss the train. It's going to take us a thousand years to get back to Sheepshead Bay from here." 

The next day you make it to work on time, at least, which means the manager will at least call you _Jim_ and not _Jimmy_ , and you've got one more day of job security. Natasha texts you that someone approached her about doing another gig later this month, and you have a split moment of jealousy to try and swallow down before she adds that she got you in, too, because until she makes it really big (of course), you two come as a set. 

And that night, Steve brandishes his phone at you while talking a mile a minute about the date he's going on tomorrow night. 

"Or well, hookup maybe? I tried to edit my profile to include some other stuff but I think I messed it up." He lets go of his phone when you reach to take it, and Steve's voice suddenly becomes muted, like someone threw a blanket over him. Because you can't stop staring at the profile image of the man Steve's talking about. 

It's that guy, whose name you now know is Sam. 

That guy. The one right up front, who couldn't crack even a smile. 

And now Steve's going on a date with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you like this? is there something you wanna see happen in upcoming chapters that would be amazing, awkward or just hilarious? did it make you feel weird about life? no matter how you feel about it, please let me know, i know people get anxious about "eloquence" in comments but i literally do not care, every comment is great. 
> 
> i plan to write one more chapter of this soon, finish my other wip, and then carry on with this one for a few more chapters. so don't worry! there's lots to come ahaha
> 
> edit: OH I FORGOT! [HERE IS SAM IN CROP TOPS](http://softfart.tumblr.com/post/147006401416), including the outfit he's wearing at bucky and nat's show. i mean i still think i really fell down on the likeness of his face but whatever you get the point, and i think more people should draw sam in crop tops honestly


	2. sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wherein we learn about sam's job(s), steve attempts to conversate on grindr, and shit gets raunchy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is... so much longer than i intended for it to be, i meant to finish it last night, but i ended up having so much fun with it that, well... here we are! i was a little nervous about the nsfw scene, because i haven't written anything comparable in three years, but i think it turned out alright. i'm also hoping my html survives this time, lmao. lmk!

The first thing you do when this Tony guy finally drops you off by a subway station is call Rhodey. The station isn't actually for a train that would take you home, not easily anyway, but you told him this one was fine in the name of not having to spend another minute with him. 

"So did you have fun?" Rhodey doesn't even bother picking up the phone with a _Hello_ anymore when it's you calling. 

"Fun who? I can't believe you set me up with this man." You lean your ass against a siamese pipe next to the station entrance, fiddling with the volume on your earbuds so it doesn't blow out the bass in Rhodey's voice. 

"Why, what happened?" He sounds sincerely curious, and you don't know if that makes it worse or not. "I did tell him to dress nice, for the record." 

"That wasn't the problem." Tony must have listened to Rhodey, because the red ribbed tank top and slim cuffed khaki shorts _had_ looked pretty alright on him, if a little casual next to you and your canvas brogues. "And what do you mean, you told him to dress nice? I'm not shallow like that." 

"Who said you were shallow? A man's gotta dress for success," Rhodey says, laughing. If he were here you might punch him in the shoulder, but lucky for him, he's sitting pretty up in Manhattan, away from your righteous knuckles. 

" _Anyway_ , the problem is you didn't tell me how much he would talk about himself." You glance at some nosy character who looks like they want to find out who _he_ is, and scowl at them until they get some hurry in their step. To be fair, you could also not be airing your issues in public, but this is too much to discuss by text. "I didn't know anyone alive could go on for that long." 

"I think he just must have been nervous." 

"Nervous how? He's been on the cover of Forbes magazine. I'm just a lowly fashion blogger trying to get modeling gigs in between ad payouts. I should have been the nervous one." 

"Wilson, I hate to break this to you, but you're a beautiful man obsessed with showing the world his stomach. You make a lot of men nervous." 

"I don't make you nervous," you say, already knowing it's not relevant. 

"That's because I already know you, and because we're not about to date," Rhodey replies, laughing again. "Plus once you've watched someone puke after drinking too much, you can never be nervous around them again. It's the law." 

"Pfuh. Whatever. That was _one_ time." 

"In Brooklyn? Sure. But it's been three times." 

"Alright, man, look. All I'm saying is it didn't work out. He took me to some comedy hour at a bar after he tried to kiss me and I said not yet, and stopped looking at me after that, so even if I changed my mind, that's still still a done deal." You curl the cord of your earbuds around your fingers like you're on the kitchen phone in your high school years. 

"Well, I tried."

"You didn't have to, honestly. I'm not that lonely." 

"I just thought it might be nice to have some romance in your life again after all these years." 

"Listen, I'm about to go into the subway," you say, nowhere near a C train entrance yet and a damn liar to your own friend. "I'll text you later, okay?" 

"Yeah, sure. Peace." He doesn't sound convinced, but he doesn't need to be for you to end the call. 

As soon as you get home, you flop onto the couch with a groan of frustration. Rhodey's got your number, of course; you _are_ lonely, as much as you'd like to be one of those people who are happier single. And god, you weren't even looking for a relationship tonight—you just thought, you know, maybe you'd end up back at Tony's place tonight, and still be there tomorrow morning. Before you actually met him, anyway. 

Dinner is just leftovers, and you fall asleep on the couch with the TV still going, your plate balanced precariously on your chest. When you wake up in the middle of the night, you barely manage to catch it as it slides toward the floor, and you stub your toe on the way to your actual bed. 

The next day, your phone reminds you that you're attending a model call today, and you make sure to exfoliate fully while you're in the shower. You think, not for the first time, about shaving your goatee for the call, and decide against it, probably not for the last time. 

The call isn't until five, though, so instead you get back to work on the blog post you drafted yesterday. It's about pastels, on the surface, and it's about wearing them as the man you are—black, queer, identifying as neither masculine nor effeminate but simply fashion-minded. Your blog does pretty well, honestly, even if you're no household name, and even occasional racist or homophobic trolls still end up getting you ad payouts, probably especially when they sit there refreshing, waiting for someone to take their bait. Whatever makes them happy, so long as you're still getting paid. 

Once the post goes up, you do your best to absolutely ignore that subfolder of your inbox, close any tabs with your blog in them so you don't go refreshing to see if there's commentary yet. Instead, you go to craigslist to do your usual trawl of male modeling gigs. 

A crapshoot, as usual. If they're not looking for a nude model, they're looking for someone well under your age range, even if there are plenty of times when you pass for younger. If you suddenly seem to be a candidate, it's unpaid or it happened yesterday, and then the nude requirement pops up in the description anyway. Terms like "well-tanned" crop up here and there, and it makes you glance at your hands and snort. Does it count if your "tan" is genetic? Oh look, this one specifies black men, and it's another nude shoot. 

Anyway. 

Mid-afternoon you open your closet, and figure you may as well stay true to your blog post by sticking to the pastel end of it—your closet is organized by darks, jewel tones, pastels and neutrals. It's also over 90 degrees out and the humidity is blasting; a crop top made of oversize white fishnet with lavender raglan sleeves should keep you cool, with lavender shorts sporting a skyline print on the front. Pastel ombre Converses should keep you comfortable while you're waiting your turn, and hopefully send the message that you don't take yourself all that seriously. Of course, maybe thinking about it that hard means you do. You brush a little powder into your eyebrows, and you're out the door. 

The organizers of the model call are senior fashion students from FIT, three of them with three different collections, three sets of standards, and a surprisingly large pool of models to choose from. Maybe because they didn't specify age or skin color, only asking for "attractive, fit" men. You'd like to think that describes you, even if you notice you're still one of the oldest men in the room. Look at all these baby faces. Shit. 

The audition, so to speak, isn't that hard, or that long. The designers ask you to perform a walk from one end of the room to the other, twice, with neutral poses when you hit the middle, since unfortunately their little table runs parallel to the walking space. Easy. Your walk is smooth and practiced, and you hit your poses with ease. 

One of them compliments your outfit; another compliments your walk, and you do your level best to be casual in your thanks. The ad money does you okay, but _okay_ doesn't really support the clothing habit you need to keep running your blog. You think this might be an actual gig, and their ad promised a modest payment, consistent with a student's budget, which is the kind that gets put on a credit card to be worried about later. 

Standing around in bunches with the other models, later, you don't realize how close the designers are until you hear snatches of their conversation. They must not know you're close, either, with the handful of six foot two barely-adults chattering between you and them. You edge just past the young giants, keeping your back turned to the designers. 

You hear _that older guy_ and you're sure it must be about you. Just because you look younger than most men your age doesn't mean you look like the nineteen year olds roaming the room here. _He was a little too big, don't you think? Like, bulky._

_Yeah, kind of intimidating. I don't think all that muscle would fit my collection._

_He looked a little angry._

It's only two of the three talking, of course. You grind your teeth in silence, move to the opposite end of the room and play 2048 on your phone to take your mind off everything. Their opinions don't speak for the third designer, anyway, so you're not out of this race. 

As a matter of fact, the third designer does choose you, telling you to your face it was your walk and your big eyes that did it for her. It takes everything in you to stay an adult about it, thank her calmly while she makes sure she has all the contact info she needs to bring you in for a fitting next week, and _not_ blow a raspberry at the other two students on your way out. That wouldn't be professional. 

Safe to say you're riding some kind of high on your way home; in a room of doe-eyed waifs roughly half your age, some of them so pale you could see blue veins in their hands, you got chosen for your experience and enduring cheekbones. Hell yes. 

Which is possibly why, as you flop onto your couch, you find yourself swiping to the third page of your home screen and opening up a subgroup that only contains one app. Grindr. 

You barely use this app, and you've certainly never told anyone that you do—not even Rhodey. It's lowkey embarrassing, at least to you, to admit to meeting up with a man just once, just to get off, and then never seeing them again, because you'll go months after any given hookup before you try for another one. 

And, well, part of it is that the app lives up to its reputation. _No fats, no fems._ Profile after profile. _No blacks, no Asians._ Bigotry disguised as preference. _Masc for masc. Straight-acting only._ Whatever that means, you want to say whenever you see that last one, except you know exactly what it means. Not you, if nothing else, because crop tops and a consideration for matching accessories don't count as acceptable behavior for these men. 

Still, there's a certain resistance that gets developed after you've been excluded enough times, so you open any profile that looks like it belongs to a man you could like, closing them just as quickly if your eye snags on a red flag word. 

Someone titled his profile _Shy but adventurous!_ and you admit that you're curious to know how a man as stacked as this blond triangle of muscle could be shy. He's doing squats in his profile, for Chrissakes, which is a sign of a gym rat, and you've never known a gym rat to be an introvert. He looks cute in the face. 

_I'm your friendly neighborhood Twunk just looking to get out there! I've been really shy but I'm ready for anything. Not looking for anything serious. Just want some sweaty fun. No racists, no macho men._

That gets you laughing, anyway. You've never heard anyone call themselves a twunk like that; you can't tell if it's ironic or sincere, especially with that capital T hanging out. But everything else? Like, not the most exciting man you've ever seen, but not a bad prospect, either, and that last sentence hopefully means there will be no nasty surprises with him. 

So you message him. 

**hey good lookin**

Wow. Nah. Bad start. You're a corny old man, officially. But now you can't take it back. You're not sure if you're glad or not that there's no typing indicator on this app. You scrub your hand down your face, as if that'll banish your embarrassment. 

_Well, that's the least weird opener I've gotten since I installed this, so off to a good start. Hi_

At least you have that. 

**haha well thats good news**  
**i'm sam**

_Steve_

You think there might be more, but you wait a solid three minutes without anything else, and you're starting to wonder if this is a bust, check your own profile to see if you accidentally put some weird shit in there that's turned him off. 

**i hope you didn't just google me on the deep web and find out my checkered past just now**  
**my robot black market days are over, i swear**

Please, lord god, let him find you funny and not awkward. Maybe you should go get a beer. Or go find someone else. 

_Haha uh, no, it's not that, I promise_  
_I just started typing out a bunch of different... things to say_  
_And they're all bad_  
_Which I probably shouldn't admit_  
_Nor that I've never used Grindr before or any other hookup app_  
_God I'm really sorry I'm blathering now_

Oh thank god, you're not the awkward one. He's awkward. He's _ridiculously_ awkward, although still safely behind the cute-awkward threshold. You're smiling at your phone. 

**blathering? nah, just explaining, believe me, i know blather when i see it**

After all, a few lines of text can't be called blather when Tony Stark has been introduced into your life so recently. Anyway, speaking of awkward—

**so about this "sweaty fun" in your profile...**

_Oh God, haha, uh... Okay, full disclosure_

You brace yourself for him to actually be straight, to be talking to you on a dare, and to be chickening out once sex is barely even mentioned. That _would_ be your luck.

_My friends made this profile without telling me and I just left everything they wrote_  
_I couldn't figure out anything to write for myself and it was already there_

Oh. Well... That's... Inconclusive. 

_Not to say I'm not looking for, you know, "fun". Just letting you know I'm not quite, uh, how they made me out to seem_

Well. You can work with that. You might still need that beer, though, and you get up to head for the fridge, phone still in hand. 

**so how are you, then, if not someone "just looking for some sweaty fun"?**

The bottom of your fridge door is crowded with single bottles and cans of various kinds of beers, leftovers from various four and six packs over the past year. Good thing beer lasts so long. You pick one out at random, and get rewarded with a taste that's light and crisp. Summer beer is God's treat to you for being alive. 

The beer also gives you something to do while you wait for Steve to reply, because he's gone quiet again, probably stuck in another loop of replies deemed unworthy. 

**you there?**

_Hi. Sorry. Yeah_  
_I'm bad at this... I'm really sorry_  
_I wanna put myself out there, I just never know what to say_

**i mean, i promise i'm not holding you to any kind of weird performance standard. i just thought you looked cute and sexy and wanted to see what was up**

Either that's gonna scare him off with the word _sexy_ involved, or encourage him. Hopefully the latter. You take an extra hard pull of your beer, and grab a second can to take back to the couch. You tell yourself, as you sit down, that if this message doesn't get him out of your shell, you'll move on with an apology, because you're not trying to hold anyone's hand through their first online hookup. 

_Okay then..._  
_Straight to the point. I can host tomorrow night while my roommate is at work. I'll have everything we need, you just bring yourself_

Damn. Straight to the point indeed. You finish off your first beer on that one, and lean forward as you type your reply. 

**sounds fine to me. what time?**

_Come around, uh, five?_

**alright. send me your # and address and it's a done deal**

Five is earlier than you expected, and honestly, if trying to time it around a roommate is a problem, you could have hosted, but you also kind of liked how forward he got, and you didn't want to scare him off by complicating plans. Besides, you're two grown men, and whoever this roommate is, they've gotta be an adult, too. Which means if they come home early, they better deal with whatever they end up hearing through the door. 

Surprisingly, once Steve has your number, he doesn't just leave it at that. He starts asking about you, as a person, which doesn't quite align with the "Looking for Right Now" his friends put on his profile. You find out he's a personal trainer, which doesn't surprise you one bit. You also find out he works a second job at a women's center as a self defense instructor, which pretty much falls in line with the good guy persona you're getting from him. He seems to think your self-employment is truly interesting, and not some form of laziness that will eventually give way to a regular jay-oh-bee, the way all your relatives seem to think. 

You find yourself still texting him as you get into bed, and when you tell him as much, rather than saying something lascivious he texts you goodnight. It's sweet, and at the same time you hope that doesn't mean he's going to be scared to get naked tomorrow. All you want is to get laid. 

This time, anyway. 

Waiting for you when you wake up in the late morning is an email from your designer, with details for next week's fitting, and a text from Steve, reminding you to come at five. You wonder how brave he was feeling when he sent that; the time stamp is for, like, one in the morning, which is an hour after he bid you goodnight. This boy is weird, but you catch yourself smiling, even as you shake your head. 

Steve, as it turns out, lives in Sheepshead Bay, which is a diagonal haul from your place on Ralph Avenue. Either you have to take three trains, or you have to go all the way into Manhattan and still turn around on a different train. Both options are annoying, but god, you really don't wanna go over the bridge. You get off at Franklin after all, haul yourself all around the station to wait an eternity for the shuttle train, haul yourself up and over the stairs at Prospect to wait for whatever train comes first, and think about how much this better be the best lay of your life for this many transfers. 

No, no, that's not fair. You chose to go ahead and hook up with some Nervous Nelly trying to find his courage. You chose this. You could have turned him down, found some experienced muscle daddy over fifty to literally pin your ass to the mattress, and instead you're on the B train, halfway out to Coney Island. 

He doesn't even have an elevator. You change your mind. He better have the ass of a god up there on the fourth floor. 

When Steve opens the door, you have to say you were not fully _prepared_ for the reality of him. _Stacked_ is such a wimpy term for his living, breathing self, between the breadth of his shoulders, the cartoony chest-to-waist ratio, and the high, rounded pecs. He's got somewhere between two and four inches on you, and maybe if you weren't so dazed, you'd be able to judge that more accurately, but as it is, it takes you a moment to realize that he's inviting you in. 

"So, uh," Steve says, knotting his fingers together, "you wanna come in, or...?" 

You shake your head out of that particular fog. "Nah, man, I thought we'd do it right here." Get it together, Wilson. 

"You thought we'd—" At first Steve looks like he thinks you really mean it, color and heat flooding his cheeks while his jaw works, like he's trying to think of how to tell you, politely, hell no. Then enlightenment dawns. "Haha, oh, wow, okay," he says, straightening and clearing his throat as he laughs at himself, "I know what jokes are, I promise. You coming in, or what?" 

It's not a big place, but most places in Brooklyn aren't, not where average people live. It looks lived in, but it also looks like Steve went out of his way to tidy up before you came over, and that's, you know, that's pretty nice. 

"Your outfit is nice," Steve says as he darts into the kitchen. "You want anything to drink?" 

"Thanks," you say, picking at your top absently. An oversized cropped tank and soft joggers are clothes that are easy to get off quickly. You didn't pick anything that fancy. "Oh, uh... Nah, I'm good." 

"Okay, so..." Steve claps his hands together and rubs them while he lets out a big breath he's been holding in. "You're here! Great. Why don't we..." He clears his throat. Twice. "Should we, uh, jump right in, or...?" His face is shiny with nervous sweat. 

You hold in your sigh. "What's your favorite movie, Steve?" 

"What?" 

"Your favorite movie." 

His body language changes in an instant, shoulders sloping downward as he visibly relaxes. "Oh, uh. The Incredibles, if I'm honest." 

"The Incredibles?" You drop onto the couch, and he follows suit, though with a bit more delicacy. "Really?" 

"Well, yeah, I think it's a really solid narrative, and while the animation is a little dated now, it's still perfectly watchable. One of Pixar's strongest efforts." He's so... _earnest_ about it. Then he catches himself being earnest, and finds his shame. "I, uh, went to art school, so, you know." 

"I'm not judging you, don't worry," you laugh, toeing off your shoes and socks. "What's your fifth favorite movie, then?" 

"Fifth? That's really specific, uh..." He leans his elbows on his knees, scratching his chin like he's really considering it. "I don't know if it's the fifth, but I like watching The Lost Boys?" 

"Why don't you put that on?" That's a movie you can work with, if memory serves you. 

The movie's not on Netflix or Hulu, but you feel, for a moment, like that video of the girl who's never been on a nice date, when Steve shells out three whole dollars to stream the movie on Amazon just because you asked for it, like before you can even suggest a different movie that wouldn't cost him. 

It doesn't take long for Steve to warm up. Your knees touch, so you slide your hand across his thigh like you didn't mean to, and apparently that's the only cue he needs. He kisses like he's desperate, gripping the back of your neck with the hand that isn't braced against the couch. The movie is background noise as Steve gradually pushes you down, until he's laid you out on the couch, a hand under each of your shoulders, kneeled between your thighs. 

"Well," you say, trying to sound less breathless than you are, "you're a lot more aggressive than I expected." 

"Is that, uh, is that bad?" He grins anyway, like he thinks he might know the answer. 

"The opposite of bad, trust me," you say, reaching up for him. "Come back." 

Steve is a welcome weight on your body when he obeys to kiss you again. The muscle of him is unyielding and hot, his hips solid when they pin yours with slow undulation. They're too far down for you to feel if he's hard or not, but you know where you'd put your money, and you chalk the misalignment to height difference, anyway. You know how _you_ feel, anyway, erection grinding against Steve's lower stomach. He slows his kisses when you whisper a request for it, although it makes him a little clumsier. 

"Hey," you say in a pause for air, "hey. You wanna move it to the bed?" Since you're not in high school anymore, and you'd like to have sex like a grownup, if it's just gonna be the once. 

"What? Oh, uh." Steve looks around, squints at the clock on the cable box, and nods, swallowing around his deep breaths. You wait for him to get off you completely, but it never happens. Instead Steve picks you up as he gets up, strong hands digging into your ass as he stands up straight. You yelp a little bit, grabbing at his shoulders, and Steve chuckles, ducking his head a little. 

"Sorry, I probably should have asked if that was okay." 

"You're lucky you're cute," you murmur, "and that this is hot as hell." Steve stands there holding you for a moment while you kiss him a while longer. Then he hefts you to get a better hold on you, and starts walking. 

Nobody's ever thrown you on a bed before, and you don't have the blood flow to your brain just now to really pinpoint how it makes you feel, but you do know it's a good feeling. You spread your arms and your knees to welcome Steve as he knee walks your way, and this time, he doesn't stick to kissing only your mouth. You wonder about his actual experience level as he kisses his way down your neck to your collarbone, his hands pushing up your loose top so his lips can keep moving down your chest. 

He pauses there, face flushed as he looks up at you. "Am I, uh... Is this too much?" 

"Too—too much?" You blink rapidly, at a loss. At least now your wondering is answered. "Too much what?" 

"I don't really—" His eyes flick down, then back up, half-lidded. His lips are so red, so close to one of your nipples. Your dick twitches. "I don't know what I'm doing. I'm just... I don't want to do anything weird. That you might not like." 

"You were doing fine, honestly," you say, reaching out to push your fingers through his short hair. "How about I promise you now, if you do something weird I don't like, I'll let you know. But if I don't tell you otherwise, assume you're on the right path. Sound good?" 

Steve nods. "Yeah. Good." 

He kisses your chest again, right over your sternum, then puts his lips around one nipple, and you groan, grabbing at his hair again. He sucks at it with his eyes closed, one hand on the bed and the other at the small of your back, until your hips buck, and he looks up with a grin. 

"Oh, now you're so sure of yourself," you grumble, but Steve pays you no mind. His mouth finds its way down your stomach, to the waistband of your joggers, and he pulls at it until the head of your dick is revealed, pressed flush to your belly by the elastic of your briefs. For a man who was just so concerned about his actions being "too much", he wastes no time in getting your whole dick out, or in getting it into his mouth. Which means your thighs are trapped by your pants, and you have to stop him for a minute, just so you can kick them and your underwear off the rest of the way. 

You're back to wondering what Steve does and doesn't know. His mouth is hot and wet, his lips soft, and his tongue makes you cry out when it grinds along the length of your cock, flicking under the head. His free hand wanders away from the base of your dick, skimming down your balls to find that thinnest skin just behind them, and it pulls a loud moan out of you, high pitched and needy. 

When you come, his name loud as it escapes you in long moans, Steve swallows around your pulsing cock, eyes closed again like he's being blessed. He comes up a little too early, and the last of your orgasm paints itself down his lips and his chin, and god, if you hadn't just come, that would set you off all over again. 

Steve wipes it off on his palm, brings his hand to his face to lick it up, and blurts out something about easy cleanup when he notices you watching. He lays down next to you as you get your breath back, your chest heaving. You turn toward him, and fall back into kissing, slow and lazy. Steve tastes salty, but he's also still flushed with arousal, blue eyes so dark they almost look black, and you can't leave him like that. 

You turn onto your side, entangling your legs with his, and put your hand against his still-clothed stomach. "You gonna stay dressed?" you murmur, tapping your fingers against his abs. 

It's hard to figure out exactly what expression Steve puts on next; if you didn't know any better, you'd say there was a hint of fear in his eyes, a whole lot of worry, and most of all, doubt. 

"Kiss me again?" Steve says, instead of answering you. You want to ask what this is about, but you sense there's something above your pay grade at work here, some shit in his past too deep for a hookup acquaintance to know about. So you do, you kiss Steve as much as he wants, as much as _you_ want. The longer you kiss him, the better he gets—a fast learner. Your orgasm was too recent for you to get hard again just yet, but that doesn't mean it doesn't feel good to make out. 

Steve ends up on top again, his entire body thrusting against yours with obvious need. He practically whines in the back of his throat, and when it's been ten long minutes of this, you finally push at his shoulders. 

"Is something wrong?" you ask, propping yourself up on your elbows. "Like, is this some kind of orgasm denial thing you just forgot to mention, or...?" 

Steve sits back on his heels, face contorting with conflict. "No, uh, nothing like that." 

"Then what?" 

"I'm just..." He bites his lip, rolls it back and forth between his teeth. "I probably should have told you when you came in. Or last night." 

"Told me what?" 

More quiet, more lip-chewing and furrowed brows. 

"Steve. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I'm not gonna get mad, or—" 

He breathes deep, finally looks at you. 

"I should have mentioned, uh, being trans, you know. Last night. Or put it on my profile. My friends didn't put it on there—" 

You hold up your hand, eyebrows raised. "That's what you're so worried about?" 

Steve shrugs, tangling his fingers together. "Is it a bad surprise? I'm... I'm sorry." 

"A surprise?" The question itself is the surprise. You glance around his room, like you'll find your answer on a shelf or something. You find something else, though, and you point at it. "No, _that's_ the surprise." 

Steve follows the line of your finger, twisting around to look back, and when he finally sees what you mean, he scrambles out of bed. "Jesus Christ!" 

"I don't know what you're so embarrassed about now, you had an actual dick in your mouth," you say with a dry voice, as Steve grabs for the American-flag themed dildo on his dresser top. 

"I bought it as a novelty," he says, like he really needs to explain it. "And it was on sale. I meant to put it away before you came over, just—" 

"You did what?" you laugh, beckoning him back to the bed. He starts to put the thing away in a drawer. "Nuh-uh. Bring your friend." 

"I thought it was funny," he mumbles as he sits back down, dildo in hand. "Like, just something stupid. And then..." 

"And then what?" you ask, crawling over and crossing your wrists on his shoulder so you can put your chin there. 

"It's, uh..." He turns it over in his hands, and you can feel the heat of embarrassment radiating off his face next to yours. "Useful." He says that last word in such a small voice that if you hadn't been so close to his mouth, you'd have never heard it. 

"You wanna show me how useful?" you whisper in his ear, before you can fully consider your words. 

Steve glances back at you, and you sit back, smoothing your face. Alright, you're serious about this, apparently. 

"Yeah," he croaks. Then he clears his throat, laughing nervously at himself. "Yeah," he repeats, his voice clearer. Louder. 

Steve pulls off his shirt, biceps flexing even with this quick motion, and there are twin curved scars under his pecs, but you're also struck by how little his nipples are, so pink the areolae barely stand out from the rest of his skin. 

The next thing you learn about Steve is that he's never rimmed anyone before, but boy is he eager to try, and that eagerness makes up for all the gaps in his knowledge. You also find out he really did mean it when he said "everything we need", with lube, a condom to roll down the novelty dildo, and a harness that fits it. By the time he's put the harness together and rinsed his mouth, you're hard again, jelly-limbed on the bed after all of Steve's enthusiastic prepping. He turns his back to you to finally take his pants off and strap on the harness. Rather than be bothered, you just take in the sight of his ass, the shape of it true to the squats in his profile photos. 

Steve enters you slowly, asking if you're alright with every inch. This stupid patriotic sex toy feels bigger than it looked, and you just keep nodding vigorously, because you're not ready to trust your voice, which keeps trying to leak out anyway. He kisses your neck, your jaw, makes it back to your lips as he bottoms out. 

And god, when you're ready, he doesn't hold back. 

His hips roll with every strong thrust, so strong half of them actually push you further up the bed until your head smacks the headboard. He apologizes with little _sorry_ s interspersed between kisses, pulls you back down the mattress with one easy yank at your waist, fucks you until you feel foggy-headed. 

You come for the second time with Steve's hand pumping your dick and his mouth at the crook of your neck, the feeling of it surging almost painfully through your body and up to the top of your head. And you keep whimpering your little moans as it dies down, right into Steve's ear as he puts his arm between you—like he might be reaching into the harness, but you can't see. It's only a few more minutes before he tenses against you, mouth slack as his voice comes out in short bursts. 

For a little while, both of you don't move, Steve feeling heavier by the minute. He pulls out eventually, but even that doesn't quite get either of you moving. You pet his hair, and he traces light shapes on your chest next to his face. 

"You want something to drink _now?_ " Steve finally says, half-muffled by your skin, and you laugh. 

"Yeah, you might've dehydrated me just a little, what with all that—what's it say on your profile again?" 

"Sweaty fun," Steve deadpans as he sits up. He looks down and peels the condom off the star spangled dildo with a shaky chuckle. "I still can't believe I actually used this on someone." 

"I can't believe I encouraged you to," you snort in response, as if it hadn't proved itself as _useful_ as Steve had claimed. "You got a T-shirt you don't care about, or a paper towel?" you ask, gesturing to the mess on your stomach. You're lucky it didn't hit your shirt. 

Steve gets you your water and cleanup supplies, faces the wall again while you both get dressed. You figure that's probably the end of it, but instead Steve makes you follow him back to the couch, because—and you can't believe this, "We didn't actually finish the movie." He rewinds Lost Boys to the place where you started making out, and sits back with his knees apart so you can pillow yourself against his chest. 

In fact, you're so comfortable you end up watching another movie. Steve puts on the Incredibles, and if you weren't so blissed out, munching on kettle corn that Steve poured into a big mixing bowl for you to both snack on, you'd find his running commentary annoying. Instead it's kind of adorable. 

You're so blissed out, in fact, that when the front door slams shut, you fumble the bowl of kettle corn because Steve jumped under you. Then he's pushing you into an upright sitting position so he can get up, jogging for the front door and leaving you with the mess. 

"Hey, Buck, I lost track of time—" 

"You must be the roommate," you say, loud enough to carry while you concentrate on cleaning up the spilled popcorn. You hope Steve has another bag stashed somewhere. 

"I thought you said he'd be gone by now," the roommate practically growls, totally ignoring you, and that's got you frowning. 

"I know, Bucky, I'm sorry, we were just having a good time," Steve says, like he's apologizing to a parent. Jesus Christ. 

"Look, man, we're just watching a movie, not fucking on the couch, so—" You stand up with the bowl of tainted popcorn, and the roommate—Bucky—locks eyes with you. The one-armed, messy-haired, wide-as-a-truck roommate glaring daggers at you over Steve's shoulder. 

The comedian. 

"Hey," you say with a jerky little wave of your free hand, unsure of what else to say or do. Shit. You didn't laugh once during his set, all thanks to Tony's dumb ass. Not that this Bucky guy would know that. 

Bucky's response is to whip around and storm back out the front door, not even bothering to close it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) i only edited in the link after the fact at the end of last chapter, so again, [actual art of sam in crop tops](http://softfart.tumblr.com/post/147364243526/softfart-summer-looks-for-au-sam-wilson-the), including this chapter's featured outfit
> 
> b) i'm going to take a quick break (like, a week at most lol) from this fic to finish my other wip and really plan out the next chapter and beyond, so in the meantime, all your predictions, hopes and desires for where this fic might go next are not only welcome, they're encouraged. if you don't have any, whatever! i literally thrive off any comment, no matter how short or how gibberish-y, and i do my add-riddled best to reply, even if they come a little late sometimes. let me know what you liked, and what you'd like going forward! or whatever!!


	3. bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky, what the fuck is your problem? as it turns out, Many

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i'm having so much fun with this fic because even though i do have an endgame in mind, i'm mostly planning chapter by chapter and it's kind of exhilarating? and i HAVE been taking cues from the comments, here and there, so... you know.

You can hear Steve thumping down the stairs after you, bare feet on stone steps that dip in the middle. He finds you on the landing between the second and third floor, and grabs you by the elbow. "Bucky—" 

"I'm just leaving you two alone longer, Steve," you say, jerking your arm out of his grasp. "Relax." 

"That's not what you're doing." He looks like he wants to make another grab for you, but controls himself by folding his arms across his chest. His fingers still drum on his upper arms, betraying his nerves. Steve hates it when you run away. 

"Oh yeah? Then tell me what I'm doing, since you know so much better." You'd cross your arms in return, but, you know. 

Steve groans, drops his arms to swing them by his hips. "Look, I know you don't like him because he didn't laugh at your jokes the other night." 

"It sounds so, so, so much pettier when you put it like that, you know that, right?" 

"Is there a reason I'm not aware of, then?" Steve cups a hand behind one of his ears for a second, the little shit. "You don't even know him enough to dislike him." 

"But you know him so well now?" you snort. "From one hookup?" 

Steve just sniffs, the way he always does when he's caught out being self-righteous. "I know more about him than you do. Did you know he's a blogger?" 

"Everyone's a blogger, Steve." You glance at your phone; it looks like Natasha's already responded to the keysmash of a text you sent her as you barreled out the door. 

"I like him, Bucky." Steve sighs, running a hand across his hair and then bracing it on the railing. "When I get upstairs, I'm gonna ask him on another date." 

"Good for you." Your phone buzzes with another text from Nat. "I'm gonna go, Steve." 

"Go where?" You hate that you can hear the strain in his voice. 

"To Nat's." You hold up your phone, let him read the texts on your lock screen letting you know her apartment is clear for landing. "Nowhere else, I promise." 

He sighs again, rocking on his heels. "Text me when you get there?" 

You tuck your phone in your pocket to put your hand on Steve's shoulder and squeeze. "Yeah. Don't worry, okay?" 

"Alright." He flashes you a smile, then gathers you into a surprise embrace, pressing tight. You scared him again, asshole that you are. 

Natasha meets you at the station, claiming she had to go outside and get something anyway. You'd call it bullshit, sneak a look at her phone to see if Steve texted her to keep an eye on you, but she stops in at a store on the way back to her place to grab a big bottle of tarragon soda and some bags of miscellaneous snacks all labeled in Cyrillic. Nat never leaves room for doubt. 

"So did you at least say hello to him?" Natasha says from the kitchen, where she's using the tarragon soda as a mixer for the drinks she's making. 

"And why would I do that?" You stretch out on your belly across her whole couch, arm tucked under your head to pillow it. 

"Because you care so much about Steve's feelings." She comes into the living room, and all you see is her knees as she stands in front of your face. "Give me back my couch, James." 

"No. I'm pouting. And you didn't put the snacks in arm's reach." You lift your head just so you can flail your arm around on the floor to point out how snackless it is. 

"You can't do a full-body pout on someone else's couch, especially when that someone else _made you a drink._ " 

"You act like you playing bartender is something special." You start to roll over so you can at least look up at Natasha while you're denying her a seat, but halfway through it she drops herself right on your hips. The force of her knocks the wind out of you when it pushes you back onto your stomach, and she scoots back, making herself a decent seat on your ass. 

"It's always special," Natasha says, followed by the sound of her taking a drink. She puts the other glass where you can see it on the coffee table, an inch out of your reach. "This is what you get for insulting me." 

"You can't torture a one-armed man, Nat. It's illegal, and cruel." You wiggle under her, trying to shift just that one inch to paw at your glass of alcohol, and she slides it a whole foot away. 

"He didn't laugh at my jokes, either." She rests a hand on your lower back, bracing herself on it. "But I'm not even close to feeling as twisted about this as you are." 

"Well, maybe that's because Steve hasn't been your best friend since single digits. You didn't meet him until we were teenagers." 

"So it's about Steve?" Natasha takes another loud slurp of her drink. "What, are you protecting his dignity, Bucky boy?" 

"I dunno. Maybe." 

"He's not the devil for not laughing at a bunch of arm puns." 

She probably has a point. You're feeling pretty done talking about this, though. "Did Steve text you?" You stare at the glass, plotting your next attempt on it. 

"About what?" She puts her glass down, half-emptied, next to yours, and leans back against the couch. 

"Making sure I got here." 

"And why would he do that?" she asks, mimicking your voice. 

You push at the couch cushion under your chest, easily upsetting Natasha's balance and sending her skidding off your calves. You pull your legs out from under her, take a proper seat on the other end of the couch, and finally grab your glass for a much-needed drink. "So he did." 

"I didn't reply, and I was making a trip to the store anyway," she says, huffing as she crosses her arms. "Don't get a big head about it." 

"My head's already huge." You put your glass down, clinking against Nat's, and you don't know if you should be smug or ashamed that it's emptier than hers. 

"I just—" She bites her lip, frowning, a warning that she's going to try and talk about feelings. "I don't think he's ever going to stop freaking out at even the suggestion of you running away. If you showed up late to his funeral he'd haul his zombie ass right out of the casket just to start a search party for you." 

You glance at the wall. "It's been five years." 

"Four and a half," Natasha corrects. "You disappeared for eleven months." 

Instead of answering, you finish your drink, sit back as you let a buzz settle in. Anything to ignore this topic. 

"Bucky." 

The car crash was six years ago. A pile-up on the Gowanus, heading back to Flatbush from IKEA. The wreck crushed your left arm up to the armpit, and by the time rescue workers got to you, necrosis was already creeping in. 

Steve took you home. Helped you with the recovery. Went with you to doctor appointments. Helped you apply for assistance programs to keep the rent paid. Cleaned the apartment, did the laundry, the cooking, the grocery runs because you couldn't stand to go outside and be looked at. Assured you everything was fine when you tried to pitch in and feel normal again. 

Tied your fucking shoelaces. 

And one day—seven months after the accident, Steve always remembers—you left. 

The day he found you, the recognition was one-sided; Steve had started hormones sometime during your absence. But the way he shouted your name, the way he ran straight into active traffic to get across the street to you—the way he wrapped his arms around you, stronger than he'd ever been—you knew it was him. 

Steve took you home, and the fear of losing you never left him. 

"Steve'll probably realize that guy's a two-faced jerk anyway, on their second date. If I didn't ruin his chances for a second date by busting in like that," you say, breaking your reverie just to change the subject. "You wanna work on some bits for that gig you snagged for us?" 

Natasha sighs, either in irritation at your avoidance, or with relief at not having to talk about feelings anymore. Her expression is kind of unnerving, honestly, a frown and a smile combined into an unholy rictus, so you're glad when she drops it and reaches for both her drink and the crinkly yellow legal pad she breaks out every time you two do comedy work together. 

You spend the night at Natasha's, remembering to text Steve as much; Steve texts you back with a photo of you hunched over your phone that you didn't even notice Natasha take. It's not even close to your favorite angle of yourself (not that you have many), and you tell him he better delete it. As for Natasha, you plot to get into her phone when she's sleeping, if you can just manage to stay awake yourself. (You probably won't.) 

"Jim, you fat bastard, the meat delivery came in early today. Where were you?" your manager asks as you clock in twenty three seconds early. 

"On my way to my job as _not_ a porter," you scoff. He only points out your girth when he's feeling nervous, as if putting you down will give him any better control of a situation. As if you didn't know you've got a gut. 

"Oh yeah? You're real funny, Jimmy. Listen, Shawn quit this morning." The manager blocks your path to the back of the house, hands shoved in his pockets. 

"He quit?" You arch your brows in disbelief. 

"Well, he no-call-no-showed. Pretty much good as quit. Besides, ah, busboy, porter, the lines are blurred, no? Especially with some of the extra stuff you already do." He claps you on the right shoulder. 

"I guess?" You frown, wishing again you still had the ability to cross your arms. "You gonna let me get to my station or what?" 

The manager breathes deep, does that old man sigh that involves growling. "Listen, you've really proved yourself around here. For one arm, you got twice the strength of any of these knuckleheads I hire off the street. You'll do me better as a porter. Anybody can be a busboy." 

"So nothing to do with not having me and Ol' Stumpy too close to customers, right?" 

The man pales a bit, and you know you've got him cornered on that one. But he clears his throat, says, "James, come on. It's just a waste of your strength. I'm tryna appreciate you, here." 

"Appreciate me with a raise," you say, chuckling to make it a joke in case he changes his mind and just fires you instead for sass. 

"Jim, I'll pay your sorry ass an extra dollar an hour if you go get the damn meat delivery right now." 

"Done." You hold out your hand, and the manager gives it a single solid shake, pointing toward the door even as he does. 

Meat is heavy, and you've only got one arm to carry it with; you're only glad the meat gets broken down at the abattoir, or you'd be carrying in an entire lamb carcass on your shoulder with no second hand to steady it. Another one of the porters arrives when you're halfway done, called in to cover for Shawn, and he helps—but you notice you're still literally doing most of the heavy lifting. Which is kind of vindicating, if you're honest. 

So when you get out of work sometime around five and Natasha texts you with sports-related emojis, you consider telling her you've got enough of a workout for the day. Instead you reply with a flexing arm emoji, and head back into Brooklyn to meet her. 

On days like these, you like to go to Steve's gym close to the end of his shift and get a workout in, then head home together. Natasha likes to tag along for other reasons. 

"I got a session with Sharon today," Nat says, snapping her gum as you approach the gym. She sweeps her hair into a ponytail. "Think she'll notice I dyed my hair?" 

You glance at her hair, and shake your head. "What, is it redder? Did you put red hair dye over naturally ginger hair?" 

"I thought it would be funny." She loops a worn magenta hairband around the base of the ponytail, where it clashes terrifically with the nearly neon orange hair. "I just want her to say something, is all." 

"You know, you could just ask her out, instead of being weird and cagey around her." 

"I'm not being cagey," Natasha says, swinging off the door handle as she holds it open for you. "As far as I know we don't have that much in common, and I like flirting with her." 

"As far as you know, you said." 

"Besides, I think she thinks I'm an alcoholic," Natasha adds with a roll of her eyes. She says something else about that not being an attractive feature while you chew your bottom lip, choosing to stay out of that argument for now. 

When you get out of the locker room and head into the main section of the gym, Steve and Sharon are not far from each other, and Natasha is already catching up to you, tugging on your ponytail as she does. Steve is by the free weights rack, coaching someone through dead lifts. Sharon is looking at her phone by the bench press, and while she's looking down Natasha makes binocular hands around her eyes and points them Sharon's way. Steve is classically jacked, all rounded muscle and trim waist, but Sharon is ripped, with rippling arms and a waist that refuses to nip in, a straight line of hard muscle from her ribs to her hips. She tends to work out in a sports bra and matching bike shorts, for which Natasha has expressed gratitude more times than you can count. To you, not her, of course. 

Nat calls Sharon's name across the gym when she's done making a show out of leering at her, and Sharon looks up with a grin while Nat jogs over. Steve is still working for the next hour, though, so you mouth a _good luck_ at Nat when she looks back at you, and go do your own thing. 

The easy part, at this point, is working out your right side. With your single arm you're benching 250, working your way up to 300 when you feel like sweating. Natasha measured your bicep once, and you're closing in on 21". It's the left side that always makes you work for it. In your duffel you drag around the gym is a soft cover for your stump, and straps that fit over it, to hook up to various weight machines around the gym. You just want your chest and shoulders to stay even in size and strength, and between your doctors and the internet, you've found workarounds. You don't have much of a stump, though, so you go slow in your workout to make sure it doesn't slip out of the strap. You're not gonna be the asshole slamming weights, whether you mean to do it or not. 

When it gets closer to seven, you hit the locker room to towel off and change into street clothes, and head for the front desk to wait for Steve. Natasha is wrapping up her hour with Sharon, which she must have paid through the nose to get, but she's spending her last minutes just chatting. She winks at you so fast as you walk by, not missing a beat in her own conversation, that you almost miss it. But you get the message, which is to not wait up for her. 

Instead of just finding a seat by the front desk, though, you find something else. Some _one_ else. 

Sam. 

While you're looking like sweaty garbage in your faded and pilled work polo and black jeans with a hole about to open up in the crotch, Sam is lounging by the far end of the counter, and never have joggers and a ribbed tank looked so good. He makes them look like an _outfit_ , not the clothes you wear to make a deli run. 

He notices you back within moments, and shifts his weight, though he doesn't stand up straight. "The roommate," is all he says. 

"The one night stand," you spit, which is actually even meaner than you intended. You're pretty sure you'd planned on saying _the hookup_. 

Sam huffs, rolling his eyes. "Not anymore, funny man. I'm here to pick up Steve for tonight." 

That stuns you. "But Steve—" Except, no, you'd never actually confirmed with Steve that he'd be going back to the apartment with you. You didn't think you had to. 

"Gonna have to think of something else to call me," Sam says, fixing you with a cold stare. "Because I think Steve likes me, big man, and I'm pretty sure I like his ass back." 

You don't know, honestly, what you expected Sam to be like. Maybe you didn't even expect anything at all because you didn't think he'd be back. But this? Blunt, challenging you to your face—it doesn't match the fashion plate in front of you. _Get used to me,_ his eyes say as he waits for a response. 

It makes you want to leave without telling Steve, but you know better. Or well, you could probably get away with texting him as you leave. Or maybe he didn't even notice you were at the gym today, consumed with anticipation at seeing this humorless asshole again. 

"Steve likes people who actually know how to smile," you mutter, plopping your ass in a chair you don't quite fit in so you can jiggle your leg. 

"Oh, I smile," Sam says, brows arched as he points at you with his phone. "Just not for you. Not with that attitude." 

You can't be around him anymore. Without another word, you hop up fast enough to make the chair clatter, and bolt out the door to the street. You send Steve a quick text of _Waited for you at the gym but headed home first_ , as if you hadn't seen Sam, as if Sam wasn't the reason for bouncing without even a goodbye, and head into the subway. 

When you get above ground again, shooting past Parkside Avenue on the B, Steve's reply just reads _Don't wait up_ with a winking emoji. Awful. You turn up your music until your bodega earbuds make it hurt, shitty drum and bass nobody knows you listen to, and grit your teeth. 

Natasha sends you a slew of texts all about her gym session with Sharon. You want to read them, especially after spotting the words _gun range_ before the next chunk of text pushes them offscreen. But you can't focus, your brain and your eyes and your throat wrapped up with anxiety that won't explain itself. 

You get off at your stop, but you don't leave the platform. Instead, you wait for the Q, drumming your fingers against your thigh until they feel numb. You ride it to the end, watching the sun finally start to go down as the train turns the corner around the Aquarium. 

Coney Island isn't as crowded as it would be in daylight hours, but there are still enough people still milling around that it doesn't feel like a wasteland. You head up to the boardwalk, walk with the flow of pedestrian traffic for a bit. You sit on one of the benches that faces the ocean. 

Sometimes you feel outside your body, but right now it's more like you're just not lined up right, an after image of yourself an inch to one side. You let your eyes roam across the water, aiming left toward Rockaway, and where you know Dead Horse Beach is. You think about how it was the first place you went with both Natasha and Steve, three high school kids cutting school to pick their way across the Greatest Generation's garbage. You think about climbing on top of the landfill and sinking in. 

Your phone buzzes. It's Natasha again. 

_are you being dramatic by yourself somewhere_

She's probably guessing, just waiting for you to confirm, but it doesn't make it seem any less like psychic abilities whenever she does this kind of thing. 

**No**

_don't lie to me bucky boy!!_  
_i bet you're pouting because steve went on a date with that beautiful man again_

**Who said he's beautiful**

_steve showed me a pic. also he's a model so_  
_stop thinking deep thoughts about it and go home_

**I'm already at home**

_if you're at home then how come i'm standing in your bedroom with no you in sight_

**I'm in the bathroom obviously**

You can't help but laugh at yourself a little. She caught you in your lie, one of her many talents. 

_if you're being a drama queen then that probably means you didn't read my texts from before_  
_so come home so i can be lascivious at you about sharon_

So you do. You push open the front door Nat didn't bother locking, and after you finally take a shower, you lay your head of damp hair in Natasha's lap so she can comb her long nails through it while she talks. She tells you Sharon asked her to go shoot guns with her in lower Manhattan next week, but that it doesn't necessarily mean anything, because maybe Sharon just needs more female friends. "Lord knows _I_ do," Nat says as she looks at you with a sigh. 

"Should I be apologizing?" you ask, smirking up at her. 

"For being a man? In general, maybe, but right now, no." She flicks you right between the eyes. "But I know what you're getting twisted up about, and you're being stupid and jealous." 

"Jealous of what!" you want to know, clawing at the back of the couch to pull yourself upright. "Sam is a fling." 

"Wow. I don't even have to say anything." Natasha gestures at you with bored eyes. "Maybe he is. Maybe Steve will end up marrying him. What's that got to do with you? It's not like you have to date him, too." 

"Okay, one, they're not dating, they're going on _one_ date, because Grindr hookups don't count as dates." You start counting off on your fingers. "Two, he's an asshole who already hates me." 

"Does he hate you, or is he reacting to you hating him?" It's such an insightful thing to say, honestly, but the way Natasha is draping herself all over the couch, like she can't stand to be part of this conversation for a second longer, makes you wonder if she's quoting it from something. 

"I don't—who cares! I don't want him around. And for all I know, he feels the same way about me, and I'm gonna get pushed out the airlock any day now." 

Nat flicks you in the forehead again, eliciting a good deep yelp this time. You swat at her fingers, but she pulls them away with ease. "You're being paranoid and anxious again. Turn your brain off, dummy. No one is pushing you out of anything, except me pushing you out a window if you don't cut it out." 

You're quiet for a little while, and Natasha puts her feet on your thighs while you consider her words, fiddling with her phone. You wish you _could_ turn your brain off, because then maybe you wouldn't want to run away at the first sign of turmoil. Turmoil, in this case, is Steve inviting a man who hates you into your shared life. Hatred is, after all, the only explanation you can come up with for all his behavior toward you since the first time you laid eyes on him. 

"Maybe Steve is just dating him for his ass, anyway," Natasha says, leaning over you to rest her pointy elbows on your chest. "Relax about it." 

"I said they're not dating!" you say again, pushing her elbows away, but she just laughs. "Watch, Steve's gonna come home tonight and talk about how Sam showed his true colors and he can't believe he ever went on even this one date with him." Just saying it gives you a sense of déjà vu.

Except when Steve comes home, Natasha already gone, he doesn't do anything of the kind. In fact, he tells you that Sam is warm, and funny, and kind, and smart, and if you'd just stop being so tense around him, maybe you'd get along. 

"Tense?" you repeat, a self-fulfilling prophecy of a word. 

"Yeah. Sam said you seem kind of hostile toward him, and I wish you'd knock it off." Steve puts his hand on your bad shoulder, rocking you a little in your seat on the couch. "I know you said he didn't laugh at your set, but you don't know how he was feeling that day. He might have been having a really hard time." 

"Oh yeah? Ask him why, then," you growl, shrugging Steve's hand off. _If he was having such a hard time, why'd he sit front row just to inflict his bad mood on everyone else?_ you don't ask. 

"I'm not asking him why he didn't laugh at your jokes from a few days ago, Buck." Steve sighs. "Can't you just let this go? For me, at least?" 

You don't want to let it go. You don't understand why no one is in your corner. You just want to be around people who like you. 

"Yeah," you say, because Steve deserves it for putting up with you. Because if you don't, you might eventually be down another person who likes you, and you don't need that. "Okay." 

"Good," Steve says, breaking into an easy grin, "because I had so much fun tonight that we're going out again next week." 

Of course. 

Steve goes on that date the following week. He also accompanies Sam to a—a _fitting_ for some modeling gig he's doing, a day after the date. And they go on another date after _that_. 

It wouldn't even be so bad if maybe Sam were invisible for all of this, but with Steve laboring under the notion that you've promised to like Sam (no such promise!), he brings Sam over all the time. You find yourself traipsing off to Natasha's to give Steve and Sam their space more and more, and you're only lucky Natasha doesn't care about you halfway living with her, or you're pretty sure she'd tell you to just invest in ear plugs and close your bedroom door. 

It doesn't help that when Sam doesn't notice you're nearby, he lives up to Steve's descriptions of him. His laugh is warm and sincere, and his jokes in return would make you laugh if you didn't resent him so much. Steve is so relaxed around him, in a way you've _never_ seen him with any romantic prospect, and you suspect part of that is Sam's apparent unquestioning acceptance of Steve's gender and body put together, which is the last thing you'd begrudge your friend. Sam is also just flat out stunning, big eyes with long lashes, full lips and high cheekbones. Long legs that lead to a round ass and a soft but smooth stomach, almost always on display with his summery rotation of crop tops. 

Of course, as soon as he spots you lurking, he gets this exhausted frown on that pretty face, and then it's definitely time for you to go if you weren't already on your way. 

Two months go by. Two long, torturous months of Sam always being over, or Steve always being out with him. (The dates are magical, from what you hear.) Two arduous months of walking in on them making out, of sharing Natasha's bed at least two nights a week, of feeling left out. Of missing your friend, kidnapped by a beautiful interloper. It's got to end eventually. 

You walk into your apartment, spot Steve and Sam cuddling on the couch. You turn around, ready to text Natasha your S.O.S., and Steve stops you. "Oh, I should tell you," he says, so you turn back to face him. Sam isn't quite looking at you. 

"We're going out," Steve says, giving you a bright smile like he expects you to return it. 

"I know," you say, doing your best to keep your face indifferent. 

"No, I mean, like—" Steve wraps his arm around Sam's shoulders, and Sam looks like he's blushing about it, a secretive smile playing his lips over even this small gesture. "We're going out. Officially. We decided tonight." 

"Officially?" You've never sounded so dumb to your own ears. 

"Yeah, Buck. Sam's my boyfriend." He puts his lips to Sam's face, gives him a gleeful press of a kiss. 

"Congratulations," your mouth says, while the rest of you astral projects to another fucking plane of existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the usual wrap-up! please don't hold back in the comments, i don't give a hot shit about "eloquence" but i do extra-love it when i see predictions and desires for what might come next in the comments, lmao. you can also bother me [here](http://softurl.tumblr.com/) if you're feeling shy or have some other request or just want to socialize over shared fandom likes and dislikes lol. whatever!! i hope you're having as much fun reading this as i am writing it


	4. interlude: natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a brief interlude with natasha's pov that takes place before the end of chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly when i went to the writespace today, i fully intended to start work on chapter 4, but this happened instead. i hope you like it and it tides you over until i can start writing again this weekend!

It's weird, meeting with Sharon Carter outside of the gym. Until today, she's only ever been Steve's coworker, and _his_ friend if she's anyone's. Until today, you've only ever admired her on a shallow level, for her strength, her confidence, her dedication to being as strong or stronger than any man in the gym. Her self-satisfied grin a workout that makes her eyes bright is just a bonus. 

Now she's meeting you in the Flatiron District, dressed appropriately for shooting guns in light wash skinny jeans and a T-shirt that reads PROFESSIONAL BODYGUARD. The narrow sleeves are tight around her biceps. You feel massively overdressed, all of a sudden. She shades her eyes with her hand as she approaches you, still squinting while she smiles. 

"You actually came," Sharon says as she makes it into the shade of the awning you've chosen to stand under. "I like your outfit." She gestures at your sheer black tunic thrown on over a strappy bralette and black cutoffs, and at your Jeffrey Campbell sandals that look positively ludicrous next to Sharon's running sneakers. You thought you'd try to impress her a little, but now you just look like you don't know how to dress to the occasion. 

"Of course I came," you say, except you have to say it again because you have to spit the straw of your smoothie out of your mouth. "Do I look like a girl who stands people up when guns are involved?" 

Sharon chuckles, shaking her head. "No, I guess you don't." She pulls her long hair back into a ponytail, tying it with a worn-out hairband on her wrist, and starts walking. "It's this way." 

She is, of course, way faster than you and your chunky platforms. Normally you don't have this problem, especially hanging around Bucky and his lazy stride, but Sharon is so physically fit she rockets ahead at first, and you have to call after her. 

"I forgot about your shoes," Sharon laughs, and slips her fingers around yours, curling tight and making your heart squeeze tighter. There are calluses on her palm that line up with lifting free weights. 

When you get to the gun range on 20th St, Sharon lets go of your hand and leads you through a glass door, up some stairs and hallways, and into a room with low ceilings and linoleum floors, the walls lined with lockers. There's a glass counter filled with gun equipment and accessories, and there are even more on the wall behind it. Down the other end of the room are tables with folding chairs, and there's a small group of people gathered around one of them. 

Sharon didn't tell you there was an exorbitant (in your opinion) fee for you to tag along, but by the time you've found out, she's already gone and paid it. You present your pistol license, something that surprised Sharon when you told her that no, seriously, you can totally shoot handguns at the range. You just only ever shot guns when you visited relatives outside of New York, so you've never been to this particular establishment. 

When Sharon puts her headset on—you won't call them earmuffs—over her goggles, she keeps your pair hooked around her elbow, and puts them on you herself, her hands lingering like she thinks she might need to adjust them. 

She corrects your stance, too, light touches at your shoulders, your waist, your hips. Her corrections are barely necessary—an inch here, another there, all dimensions that would never affect your ability to shoot—but you let her. If anything, you cock your hips too far in the opposite direction, just so she has to push them back into place. 

Sharon says it's okay to miss, just loud enough to make it through the headset. You blow half a round right between the target's imaginary eyes, and the other half gets clustered where its heart would be. Sharon's eyes get real big as she whistles. 

"I'm Russian," is the explanation you offer later, over drinks. The bar you go to is way further uptown, to escape the prices of lower Manhattan. 

"What does that mean?" Sharon snorts, running her finger down the condensation of her beer glass. 

"You know," you say with a shrug. "I dunno. My parents were just hardcore about my marksmanship, for a while, and it was just one of those things I didn't tell the other kids at school. Even then I already knew it would make me look like a fucking weirdo." You lift your glass, take a sip; it's a good stout. "They stopped after Columbine happened, though." 

"Can I taste that?" Sharon says, demonstrating how much better she is at social interaction than you, because normal people don't talk about school shootings on their first not-date. She points at your glass. Your choice of beer is in direct opposition to the light-colored, hoppy stuff she ordered. 

"Yeah, of course," you say, putting your hand over one side of your face while you continue to silently thank her for the subject change. 

She turns the glass to make sure she drinks from the same spot she did, looks at you over the rim while she drinks. With hooded eyes, but maybe that's just how she drinks. 

Then the moment is ruined by the face she pulls, and she puts your glass right back where she found it with her tongue hanging out. "Wow, alright, just not for me." 

That gets a laugh out of you. "That's not very Russian of you." 

"My grandmother was from England," Sharon says, before taking a hard pull from her IPA to clear out the taste of your dark beer. 

"Maybe I should take you to Brighton Beach, see how many other Russian things you won't like," you snicker, taking your own sip. 

"Well." Sharon looks at you, lets her eyes flick down before meeting your eyes again. "I can think of one Russian thing I like." 

The dim lighting of the bar hides how hot your cheeks get, which you'd blame on the beer if you hadn't barely had any. Your pokerface is good, but it's women who make you lose control of your blushing, without fail. 

"Let me guess. Vodka," you say, leaning forward on your elbow. 

"Take it or leave it," Sharon says with a shrug. 

"Big fur hats." 

"My head's too big for hats." She leans forward too, propping her chin on the heels of her hands put together. "One more guess." 

"Borscht in the summer." You look very pointedly into your beer, away from Sharon's almost-smug face. 

"I don't like beets," she says, like she's admitting a fault. "If you come a little closer, I'll tell you the answer." 

You look up. Sharon has bedroom eyes, and there's electricity in your body. 

"I'll be right back," you say as you jump to your feet, just graceful enough to pull the chair back as you do. You leave Sharon at the table looking confused as you weave through the crowd to the bathroom, though you at least left your purse on the table so she doesn't think you're bailing entirely. 

The bathroom is tiny, with two narrow stalls and one almost miniature sink; to stand at it is to block the door to the second stall. You grip the sides of the sink, staring at yourself in the scratched mirror, then splash frigid water over your face, over and over until it's running down your neck and making you shiver. 

"It's okay," you mutter, rocking your feet back and forth. "It's okay." 

It's been so long since you were in a relationship that the exact year of your last breakup has gotten hazy. All you can remember is that it was before Bucky's accident. And even with your occasional attempts at dating—you know, with real humans and everything—since then, you've always been the one to fuck it up. You're always too weird, too mean, too distant. Whatever mysterious charm you might hold wears off quick when the other person realizes they can't have a deeper conversation without you saying something they don't like. The only person who's ever really been able to handle you is Bucky, and you already tried that in middle school. 

Sharon is so good. She seems genuinely interested, which continues to surprise you. So it hurts all the more to consider the inevitable future when she discovers how unlikeable you really are. How fucking fake you are, held together with stolen personality quirks and statement fashion. 

You should go back. Get your purse, thank her for an enchanting evening, and go home to look for a new gym to go to. 

You splash your face one more time, and end up wiping off your lipstick. 

The Sharon you meet at the table is not the one you've been with all day. She looks lost, and when she spots you, she twists a napkin between her hands, her brows pulling together with what looks like worry. "Sorry," you say as you take your seat, your face nice and impassive again. "I just had to like, suddenly and violently pee." 

"Oh," Sharon says, dropping the napkin. "Of course." 

Then silence, while Sharon takes a long but dainty drink from her glass. 

"I'm, uh, sorry I misunderstood," she says after a minute, blinking rapidly. 

"Misunderstood?" You pause with your glass an inch off the table, and put it back down. 

"I, uh." She breathes deep, rolls her lips between her teeth. Laughs, shaky as it comes out. "This is going to sound so stupid. I thought you were, uh, interested in me." 

This is your out. You could just say you thought you were just hanging out, but you had fun otherwise. Then you wouldn't have to explain why the very idea of Sharon being interested back made you panic and bolt. 

But you know what that feels like, and it's something you wouldn't want to do to another woman, not ever. 

"Of course I'm interested in you," you say, a rueful smile slow in spreading across your face. "You're beautiful, funny, smart, _and_ you could snap me in half. The woman of my dreams, probably." 

It's like Sharon wants to smile, but confusion and upset are still winning out. "Then why did you—?" 

"What, freak out and run?" You run both hands down your face, laughing at yourself. "Oh, you know." 

"No, I don't know." Sharon reaches for one of your hands, and you let her take it. 

"Feelings are scary, and I'm a bad person. Something like that." You shrug, deep enough to make it comical. "Sorry. I'm fucked up." 

Sharon laughs, visibly relieved. "That's all?" 

Not exactly the reaction you expected. "Well, yeah." 

"You're the first girl I've felt comfortable around like this in so long." She squeezes your hand. "Even if feelings are scary and maybe you're a bad person, can we—" Sharon swallows, just a little bit. "Can we just try it?" 

You look at your joined hands, biting just one side of your lip. 

"You can say I told you so if it doesn't work out," she adds, barely loud enough to be heard over the din. 

Feelings are scary. You're a bad person. But Sharon is fighting for you. 

"How did you know I love 'told you so' rights?" you say at last, your smile small but sincere. 

"All bad people love that," she replies, her smile so much broader. 

Sharon walks you to the train station when you've finished your beers. Then she walks you down to the turnstiles. She swipes through, says you shouldn't have to be alone while you wait in a heat sink of a subway station at night. And then she gets on the train with you, saying she's already waited with you, she may as well ride with you. 

Her hands are already under your top while you unlock your front door. By the time the door is locked behind you, she's pulling it off completely, and she kisses her way up your neck to your mouth. You stumble together to your couch, and god, you're so, _so_ glad Bucky didn't let himself into your apartment to pout about Sam and Steve, because you need this. Sharon pushes you down onto the couch, slides her hands under the bottom of your bralette until your tits fall free, and puts her mouth to one while you arch your back and groan. 

Sharon sits up when you push at her chest, and your fingers go to work undoing her fly, hands sliding around to cup her ass in the process of pushing her jeans down. She dressed practically for the range, but her underwear is little and lacy and black and for a moment you just press your face right above them and laugh into the sparse hair under her belly button. 

The overheard light suddenly flicks on, and you and Sharon both freeze, your hands still on her butt. 

"Sorry, I took a nap in your room because Sam—" Bucky freezes too, his mouth still open to issue whatever new complaint he has about the guy Steve's been seeing. "Oh. Uh." 

You let go of Sharon's ass in an instant, pulling down your bralette while she yanks her jeans back up.   
"I, uh, am so sorry—" 

"Get out, Bucky!" You point at the door, way less worried than Steve about Bucky disappearing into the night, especially right now. 

"I just came over to—" 

"BUCKY GET OUT!!" You kick your feet as you screw up your face, and Sharon gets up in a hurry to avoid getting kneed in a butt cheek. "Out! Out! Out right now!" 

"Sorry!" Bucky says one more time, and gallops for the door. On his way out, though, he holds it open just long enough to grin at you and flash you a thumbs up. 

"Out, goddammit!" you holler, and the door finally shuts. You fall back, limp with frustration, and drag your hands down your face. Sharon sits on the edge of the couch, and you drum your fingers on your stomach. 

"I'm so fucking sorry about that," you mutter, sighing. "He's, uh. My friend from when we were kids. He stays over sometimes." 

"It's not the first time someone's caught me with my pants down," Sharon says with a little laugh. She reaches over, pushes some of the hair out of your face. "You want me to turn the light back off?" 

You stop like you really need to consider that. "Nah," you say, reaching for her. "Not unless you want to." 

"I'm good right here," she replies, grinning as she climbs back into place between your thighs. 

Sometime around one in the morning, when the afterglow of orgasm has finally worn off but your insomnia hasn't, you pick up your phone, careful to not dislodge Sharon's arm around your waist. And you text Bucky a thumbs up emoji.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was that weird? i really enjoy writing natasha but this was my first time writing her pov, and i've never written sharon before :') so who knows about that characterization! 
> 
> anyway [usual feelings about all comments being good comments] and also [here's a sam outfit for the next chapter](http://softfart.tumblr.com/post/147971923141/this-outfit-wont-actually-be-relevant-until). i love drawing sam in crop tops or in any outfits at all and you should all be out here with me drawing sam in crop tops imo


	5. sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> good fashion, good times, but also a lot of yelling ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! a combination of social obligations and medical issues got in the way here, but it's done now. i was a little nervous about the ending of this chapter, but overall i'm pretty happy with it!

Backstage feels dark, everything hushed by long and heavy curtains. Models dart from place to place, half of them unshod while another group of them are being wrestled into strappy shoes by assistants, who are really just friends of the designers volunteering their help. 

Your designer—Wanda, her name is Wanda—chose you as her star model, and you're opening and closing her show. Right now she's fussing at the [first look](http://softfart.tumblr.com/post/147971923141/this-outfit-wont-actually-be-relevant-until), tugging at your cropped T-shirt and brushing lint off the holographic sea shell print; settling and resettling the long holographic skirt on your hips until its asymmetric point falls where she wants it. Her brother is her main assistant today, and he plucks the purple ombre shades off your face to make sure your makeup is surviving. 

"I can't believe you're thirty," Pietro says, dabbing a cotton swab around your eyes where your nerves are starting to make your eyeliner melt. You get the sense that he's being lowkey petty, as if he thinks you're just under thirty and about to be offended, but boy, you haven't been thirty in a while. The corner of your mouth twitches, and Pietro reminds you to keep your face still, even though he's nowhere near your mouth. 

"You look so good," Wanda whispers once her brother is gone, holding both your hands and spreading your arms. "Thank you for doing this." 

"Thank you for paying me," you snort, and Wanda laughs, before scurrying off to go check on another model. 

The previous designer comes back through the curtain, holding hands with her closing model. For a moment you can hear the roar of applause, and then the curtain swings shut again, muffling it. 

"Wanda," the stage director says, motioning her over. She has to go out and talk about her collection. 

The other models line up behind you while Wanda talks, a small gaggle of chicken-chested boys in a variety of skin tones. Wanda only has ten looks, and you're modeling the last one, shrinking the pool of models even more. The clothes on the other models are all blacks, silvers, whites, opalescent pastels in pink, blue, purple, green. Skin tight pants that look like water, clear vinyl tops that showcase delicate brown nipples. Aquatic-themed accessories everywhere. Half of them don't look like they'd be acceptable outside the FIT campus, but that's not really the point. 

Wanda pushes back through the curtains just as the stage manager cues you. _Good luck!_ she mouths, giving you two big thumbs up, and the stage manager is saying, "Go!" 

The runway lights are blinding at first, hot and oppressive, but they also distract you from how many people are watching you. There's so much cheering, some people even screaming. Wanda's work is good. You're on autopilot, your hips swaying just enough to make the skirt move like it's a bell that got hung on them. When the [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FghmcUMGh1E) finally reaches your brain, it's ethereal, like being underwater. _Do you have love for humankind?_ the song asks, just barely. 

You get to the end of the runway, and as you pose, you spot Steve in the audience, all the way in the back corner. Your sister couldn't make it to the show—your niece's ballet recital fell on the same Friday, go figure. But your boyfriend is happy to come watch you strut, and he hoots when you make eye contact, pumping his fist. 

Of course, next to him is Bucky Barnacle, always stuck to Steve's side for some reason. He doesn't even look like he wants to be here, like Steve's dragging along his pouty teenage delinquent son that can't be left alone. Bucky's watching, of course, because it's impossible to not look at the stage, so you meet his gaze, too, and give him your nastiest fashion sneer while tugging the hem of your shirt gently up your ribs. You're not exactly sure what reaction you thought that'd get, but he looks madder once he realizes that was for him, sinking down further in his seat. You'll take it. 

When you turn around, the next model is already slinking down the runway toward you, wearing one of the vinyl shirts with shorts made of the same holographic fabric as your skirt. You make it to the curtain to be ushered into the shelter of backstage, but your job isn't over yet. While Wanda peeks through the other side of the curtain, Pietro and another ghostly-looking Eastern European boy descend on you, the latter unbuckling your shoes while Pietro confiscates your shades and hat. 

To be dressed by other people is to be pulled at like an awkward doll, and Pietro is certainly not gentle, except when it comes to handling his sister's handiwork. Pietro and the ghost boy strip you to your briefs, then push and pull you into shimmering black shorts that just skim your mid-thigh, flatknit pale pink socks that almost meet the bottom of the shorts, and your same open-sided boots with the tall chunky heel as before. Ghost boy makes you yelp when his frigid hands apply sock glue to your thighs, which distracts you from Pietro coming at you with the top of the outfit like he's wielding a folding chair in a wrestling match. 

It's a jacket, ostensibly, but the clear vinyl that makes up the majority of its construction makes it a weapon in Pietro's hand. He thrusts it in ghost boy's hands while he gets a big brush from his makeup kit, and slaps your shaved chest with silver shimmer until the skin feels raw. Ghost boy holds up the jacket behind you so you can put your arms through the sleeves. Wanda really flexed her construction skills with this one; the vinyl is accented with seamed holographic shapes, all the way up into the roomy hood that shades the top half of your face. The back of the jacket is emblazoned with the same hologram seashell as the shirt of the first look. 

Pietro grabs your chin to apply opal pink lipstick, and then the stage manager is calling you to the end of the line; there are only two models ahead of you. A collection this small doesn't take long to show. 

This time when you come out, the crowd is beyond worked up, and you can see people standing to clap. Sweat runs down the small of your back between the vinyl and the heat of the lights when you hit your poses, but you find Steve again, and he's whistling like an old man with his fingers in his mouth. 

The Barnacle is gone, though. Typical. 

After the show Wanda is overwhelmed by all the praise; her father gives her a bouquet big enough to make her stagger. Her other models surround her like bees to flowers, and already she's getting offers to buy her samples. 

You find Steve begging the stage manager to let him backstage. The stage manager relents with a roll of his eyes when you spread your arms and call Steve's name, and Steve practically leaps his way to you. You put your pink lipstick all over his face, but Pietro must have used some kind of ultra mega stay formula, because it's still firmly on your lips, even after you try smearing it off on the inside of your wrist. 

"Still like me when I'm all tarted up?" you ask, crossing your wrists behind Steve's neck while he keeps his arms around your waist. 

"Pretty sure you could wear a garbage bag and I'd still think you'd look good," Steve says, earning him a scoff. 

"Are you saying you think I would? First of all," you say, counting fingers he can't see behind his head, "and second of all, my question was the opposite of what you just said." 

"I'm just a dumb jock trying to be supportive," Steve says with a grin. "Let me wear some of that lipstick." 

You get thirty seconds to make out with Steve in a dark corner in the creaking vinyl jacket before Pietro practically teleports into your personal space; you don't understand how he moves so fast. He wants his sister's work back on the hanger, and here's your street clothes to change into, packed neatly into a wrinkled Godiva shopping bag he shakes at you. He and ghost boy help in yanking off the show outfit, but once they've got everything they vanish, leaving you in your underwear. 

"Ever think you'd have me naked in a public space this soon into the relationship?" you snort, bending to reach into the shopping bag. 

"Maybe not this soon, but eventually," Steve whispers into your ear when you stand up again, and it brings a little heat to your face and your stomach, because it's always so easy to forget how nasty Steve can be when he wants to. 

"Oh yeah?" you murmur as you pull on distressed black skinnies, the rips making for ventilation in the unrelenting heat wave outside. "This something you've been thinking about?" 

Steve reaches into the bag to hand you your tank top. "Just a little. Like every time we go by Prospect Park." 

"You are so goddamn nasty, Rogers," you say after you pop your head through the shirt, but you kiss him again anyway, tucked just behind a big fold of curtain. 

You're pulling on your sneakers when you hear the stage manager again. "Are you looking for someone? Sir, you can't come back here. Sir—" 

You lean over to look. It's Bucky, who couldn't even be bothered to dress nicely for the show. Steve at least came in a tight shirt and reasonably nice chinos. Bucky looks like he just rolled out of bed, from his chunky hair to his sweatpants to his dirty Payless sneakers. 

Sighing, you get the stage manager's attention. "He's with me," you grit out, and the stage manager huffs as he lets Bucky pass. Bucky doesn't so much as acknowledge you, just goes to stand behind Steve and look surly. That's also about when the weed stench hits you like a wave, all emanating from Bucky. 

The Barnacle stays with Steve while you check in with Wanda before you head out. Wanda thanks you profusely, pulls a handful of flowers out of her giant bouquet to give you, and makes you lean all the way down to get a kiss on the forehead. You get stuck in a swarm of other models who give you compliments both sincere and backhanded about how you pulled it off—in some cases, 'despite your age'—and when you finally break free, Bucky is looking real agitated for someone who smells as skunky as he does. 

"You ready to go?" you ask as you slip your hand into Steve's. 

Steve shrugs, swinging your hand a little. "Yeah. Back to my place?" 

You look at Bucky the professional mess. "I thought we were going out for Thai," you say, a little slower than you meant to. Not that Bucky is invited. 

"We can order in," Steve says, with a little curl in his voice and his lip like he's trying to make that sound like the more appealing option. And it would be, if there weren't a guarantee of Bucky being around too. 

"Your friend looks like he wants to go home," you say, pointing with your chin at Bucky. "Why don't we let him while we grab something to eat?" 

"I thought we could all go home together." There's some strain in Steve's voice you don't understand—literally, you do not understand what the problem is. Why does Bucky have to stay with you? "Order in, relax, kick our shoes off." 

Bucky interrupts with a deep sigh, scratching at his neck. "I can take off, Steve. I'll text you when I get in." 

"You don't have to do that," Steve says, and you take a second to just stare at him—Bucky just gave him a huge out, and Steve is still going. It's got to be more than some kind of guilt. 

There's a moment where you feel a glass wall appear between you and the other two men. Bucky puts his hand on Steve's shoulder. He squeezes. He tells Steve he'll be fine, reiterates his promise to text. Steve casts his eyes all around, bites his lip, and finally nods. 

Bucky pushes past the beleaguered stage manager to leave, and the glass wall vanishes. You're not really ready to ask Steve what that was about, just mentally chewing on it, and anyway, you're hungry. You give Steve's hand a little squeeze. "How about that Thai, then?" 

The Thai place is a narrow room further uptown, the doors flung open to make use of every square inch of space. Steve sits on the side of the black table closer to the street, like he believes he'll take up less space that way. The waitress glances at you when Steve orders something spicy, like _Aren't you going to tell him?_ and you put your hand on Steve's, tell him this other (non-spicy) dish is real good. You're doing this partly to save him from inevitable tears, and partly because if he puts drunken noodles with as much heat as they serve here in his mouth, it'll never rinse out in time for him to maybe blow you later tonight. 

Not that you're counting on that, specifically. But, you know, it'd be nice. Steve ends up ordering the fried rice. The waitress smirks at you as she walks away, and if she weren't so quick, you'd return it. 

All the tension you saw riding Steve when Bucky was leaving is gone, and you have your carefree Steve back. His eyes crinkle when he laughs from his belly, just that barest hint of oncoming aging. He touches your hand and your face whenever he has the opportunity, steals bites of your noodles but leaves the beef because he knows it's sacred. 

Which makes it all the more painful to bring that tension right back, but you're beyond ready to find out what the hell that was all about. "I need to know, Steve." 

"Yeah, babe?" He always talks like that now that you're official, says it casual enough for it to fly, especially when he smiles like that. You think it's kind of goofy, but you also kind of love it. 

"Why wouldn't you just let Bucky leave, before?" 

All that tension comes flooding back. Steve's face looks tight, all of a sudden, and his hands retreat to his lap. He swallows around nothing. 

"Steve. What was that about?" 

His brows twitch together as he considers his food, pins the tip of his tongue between his teeth. "It's a long story," he says, finally looking up. 

You gesture to the table, the unfinished food. "I'm not going anywhere." You say it softly, though, reaching across the table. Steve doesn't need to feel cornered. 

Steve swallows again, but he takes your hand, curling his fingers around yours. "You'll probably think I'm fucked up after I tell you." 

"I already think you're fucked up," you snort, squeezing his hand. "I hope you already noticed that I'm fucked up, too, or you're in for a hell of a surprise." 

That at least gets you a chuckle. "You like me, don't you? Pretty fucked up." 

"Hey now." Getting off the subject. "Why wouldn't you let Bucky go?" 

There's that tightness again. "He ran away once." 

_What, like a dog?_ you almost ask, and you thank God for the grace to button your lip in the nick of time, because that would have gone over like a car off a cliff. "Ran away?" you parrot instead, and give one more little upward thanks, whether there's anyone actually listening or not. It seems like the safe option. 

"He, uh." Steve doesn't let go of your hand, but his other one does massage the bottom half of his face while he frowns. "It was a car accident. A bad one." 

Your stomach twists. 

_It was a car accident._ Words you won't forget. Can't. You grip Steve's hand tighter, and he must think you're trying to be supportive. 

Let him. By the time he starts talking again, you're grounded again, or grounded enough. 

"It's how he lost his arm. He, uh, seemed okay when I brought him home from the hospital." Another quick twitch of his eyebrows, a little shake of his head. "Okay by the standards of anyone recovering from limb amputation, anyway. Haha." The little laugh sounds dead. 

He clears his throat. "And then, uh, one day I came home and I couldn't find him. Seven months after the accident." Steve has things he'll never forget, too. "Nat said he'd come back, but he didn't, not for a long time." He pulls his phone out, starts tapping. It takes him only a few taps to reach the photo he wants to show you, and he turns his phone around to slide it toward you. You lean over it. "I put these up everywhere I could think of." 

It's a missing person poster. Of Bucky. Of a very different Bucky than the one you've met, in fact—one with coiffed hair, an easy smile, and a significantly more defined jawline. His eyes are bright, and for once you can see just how clear of a blue they are, even in this blurry picture of a picture. Most glaring of all, though, he has two arms. The poster has to specify which one he's missing. 

You want to ask Steve why he still has this on his phone. "How long ago was this?" you ask instead. 

"The accident was six years ago." 

You sit up straight, looking at Steve with sharp eyes. "How long was Bucky gone?" 

"Almost a year." You'll bet anything he knows exactly how long it was, to the day. Not just _almost a year_. 

For a few minutes, you just opt to take a bite or two of your cooling food, considering Steve and his story. The longer you take, though, the more Steve seems to shrink into himself. 

"Is that why you bring him everywhere? Why he says he'll text you when he gets home?" You say it only loud enough for Steve to hear over the noise of the other patrons and the nearby street. 

"I don't—" Steve twirls his fork endlessly in his rice, until it hits the plate and scrapes against it. "Maybe." 

You're not deep into this enough to know what to say. Luckily, Steve's phone buzz-buzzes, and he smiles as he picks it up. "Guess it doesn't matter tonight, anyway. He texted me from home." He shows you the screen. 

"Looks like he's sending a photo to go with it," you say, pointing at the phone and trying not to laugh before Steve sees it. 

"What—" Steve flicks the phone back his way, and turns pink at the sight of the photo Bucky's sent of the American flag dildo sitting on the couch next to him, captioned _found a new friend anyway_. "I don't know how he found that," Steve mutters, putting his phone back to sleep and shoving it down to the end of the table. "I'm gonna throw that thing away." 

The next five minutes of dinner are spent arguing—as discreetly as anyone can argue about a fake dick in public—the pros and cons of the Freedom Dildo. The ten minutes after that consists of googling more dignified alternatives, always throwing furtive glances over your shoulder to make sure the waitress isn't about to pop up and get an eyeful of your window shopping. Not like you couldn't do this at home, of course, but—well, in the heat of the moment, is your excuse. By the time the bill is paid, Steve's made an online purchase, too. 

You go back to Steve's apartment with him, despite the long trek home; you can admit that last conversation got you at least a little amped. Bucky is passed out on the couch with a beer can in his one hand, threatening to slip to the floor any second, and it's the most peaceful you've ever seen his gremlin ass look. Too bad he still doesn't wash his hair. 

Of course, Bucky also starts crashing around in the living room the second you've got Steve naked. Steve sighs as his hand slips out of your underwear, and grins ruefully while he whispers an apology. 

Fucking Bucky. 

It's a week later when you're meeting with Steve at his apartment again. You're traipsing up the stairs when you get a text from him; he's running late from work, but he shouldn't be more than 20 minutes behind schedule. 

You're supposed to meet him here before hitting the boardwalk, so Steve can drop all his heavy gym equipment (and hang up his shirt and shorts), wash up and put on something more shore-worthy. You personally feel real cute in your little shorts and half-shirt, feeling the breeze on your toes in one of the few pairs of sandals you own. You wondered, at first, how Steve felt about your fashion choices; you have no doubts now, every time he slides his hand around your bare waist, or skims his fingers down its center. 

This is one of the few times you wish you didn't live in Bed-Stuy. Steve comes to your apartment, too, but when it comes to summer doings, Sheepshead Bay is just more convenient. You sigh as Steve's second message pops up, telling you Bucky should be at home and able to let you in. 

So you ring the doorbell. No response. Why are you not surprised? 

You give it a courtesy minute, scrolling Twitter mindlessly. There's not even any thudding of footsteps in the apartment, so maybe Bucky is out and just didn't tell Steve. His prerogative, of course, but after what you've learned—well. 

Another press of the bell, this time holding it down, sustaining the abrasive note. When that doesn't get you results either, you start jabbing over and over again with quick little pecks of your finger, then hold it down again. Come _on_. 

The door jerks open right as you're about to launch into a second round of staccato ringing, revealing the Barnacle behind it. And Bucky's not wearing just anything–in fact, he's barely wearing anything at all, scowling at you with dripping hair and a terrycloth skirt around his waist. Legitimately, a length of towel stitched at the sides with an elastic waistband. There's a trail of wet footprints behind him, which he doubles back on as soon as the door's open. 

It's the first time you're seeing Bucky's stump fully exposed like this, though not for long once he stomps back into the bathroom, since you apparently interrupted his shower. It's almost eerie how smooth it is; he moves so fast you can't even catch sight of a surgical scar. It's also the first time you've seen him without a shirt on, actually, but you're not about to dwell on that. It's like catching someone's dad topless. 

You lock the front door behind you, sit all the way on one end of the couch to dick around on your phone once it connects to the wifi. The only sound is the shower going, and the occasional video autoplay on your phone. You text Rhodey about having to wait for your boyfriend while his cantankerous roommate is hanging around, and Rhodey just makes fun of you. 

Bucky seems to purposefully turn his face away from you when he bursts out of the bathroom again, just to vanish into his room. He emerges wearing a loose T-shirt that covers his stump again, and stained Spongebob pajama bottoms that are fucking incredible. He stops by the living room just to glower at you on the couch, then passes into the kitchen. 

He hasn't been this bad in a while, actually. Steve must have asked him to knock it off, but with no Steve around, Bucky's in full blown resentment mode. But—

"Hey man, you got a Samsung charger?" you ask from the couch, because resentment or not, texting with Rhodey and looking at Vines while Bucky was in the shower has run down your battery a whole lot. 

At first Bucky doesn't reply at all, and all you hear is him shuffling around in the kitchen, drawers rattling and flatware clattering. The microwave door slams shut, followed by beeping and the thrum of it turning on. "I just need a—" 

A black tangle of plastic cord comes sailing out of the kitchen to smack you right in the mouth, barely avoiding hitting your teeth. The prongs of the power adapter sting your cheek. The whole thing drops into your lap while you're hissing with pain and rubbing your lips, and you look down. Well, it's a Samsung charger, just like you asked for. 

"The fuck is wrong with you?" you snap as Bucky appears in the entrance to the living room, looking as surly as a toddler denied ice cream. 

"It's a Samsung charger." He says it so flatly, like he didn't just assault you with it. "Charge your phone." 

"It's gonna be exhibit A for the assault charges on your ass if you don't relax!" You hiss again, running your tongue over your pulsing lower lip. "Jesus!" 

Bucky's face twitches, looking like he might finally realize that was a fucked up thing to do. Like he might even say sorry. Instead he just clenches his fist and starts to turn back toward the kitchen. 

You stand up, dropping your phone and the charger onto the couch. "We need to talk. Like _now_." 

"I don't think we do." He keeps walking. 

"Too bad! This isn't a debate. Sit your ass over here." You point at the couch when Bucky looks over his shoulder. "Or do I need to be texting Steve about how his best friend tried to break my damn teeth with a projectile piece of plastic?" _Do I need to call your mother?_ it feels like you're asking. 

That gets him. Bucky sighs, runs his hand through his damp hair. "Okay." When he sits all the couch cushions puff up with the force of his ass hitting just one of them, and he tucks himself into the corner of the couch opposite yours. You retake your seat, steepling your fingers between your knees to hide the way they shake during confrontation. This isn't even your turf to be making this stand on. "Talk." 

"You've got a problem with me," you say, opening your hands without separating them. "You wanna tell me what it is?" This isn't shaking your feeling like the babysitter to a problem child. 

"I don't know what you're talking about." He curls his legs up on the couch, like a shield between you and him, Spongebob's wild-eyed smiling face staring you down. 

"You threw a charger at my face! Like, just now! How the hell are you gonna—" 

"I threw it too hard. Sorry." That is the least sorry expression you've ever seen attached to an apology. "I was just trying to be nice." 

_God_ , you want to curse this white boy out. You wanna tell him all about himself, make him feel real bad for all his petulance and pettiness. Send him back to his room to cry. But he's Steve's friend, and you know he's been through some traumatic shit. Just because he's petty doesn't mean you have to be. You breathe deep. 

"Do you just not like me? As a person?" You gesture to yourself. "The fuck did I do to piss you off this badly?" 

"I never said I don't like you." He looks at the tops of his thighs instead of you, rolling his lip between his canines on one side. 

"Listen, maybe this is something you don't understand," you say, leaning forward and spreading your hands wide. "You don't have to _say_ you don't like me. You're always skulking around and sighing and glaring whenever I'm around. You don't throw a charger at someone you're cool with, you walk into the room and hand it to them." You don't mention how you would totally throw a charger at Rhodey, but that's different. That's Rhodey. "Can you fucking tell me what I did to get you this aggressive?" 

Bucky just shifts in his seat, frowning as his eyes flick from you to his knees and back again. He looks like he's got plenty to say, but nothing's coming. So you have to do some thinking of your own. 

"Was it—" You slap the side of your fist against your open palm in epiphany. "Was it your comedy show?" 

The way Bucky squirms and reddens says you might be on the right path, but he doesn't verbally confirm one way or the other. Just sucks his lips in between his teeth. 

"Because I sat up front and didn't laugh?" You can't fucking believe this. Three months of bullshit, and when you get down to it, it's all Tony Stark's fault. "I'm honestly, truly sorry about that." You laugh with disbelief, rubbing your jaw. Bucky finally looks at you, but it's not the look of relief you thought you'd get. Maybe it needs explaining. 

So you do. "It was the bad date I was on," you admit, bringing your hands back together to twist the fingers up against each other. "This dude basically ruined my night and then dragged me to your show, and I just couldn't laugh or even focus on anything. It wasn't anything about you, I promise." 

Bucky looks impassive. You want to scream. 

"The point is, I'm actually very sorry. This is me, apologizing. I know standup is your creative passion, just the same way I feel about modeling." You offer your hand to shake, an olive branch. "I'm sorry, man. No hard feelings?" 

He looks at your hand like you're offering him a live electric wire to grab. Then he fixes you with this serious gaze, keeping his own hand very much to himself. 

"I told you I don't have a problem. There were never any hard feelings to begin with." 

That's it, now you're just going to beat him unconscious. 

The door unlocks right at this very crucial moment, and Steve's flushed, grinning face pokes out before the rest of his body follows. "Hey Sam, sorry I ran late. The guy I was training slipped and pulled a muscle real bad, and I had to stay and help with that." He looks at the two of you on the couch together, and his grin gets wider. "Look at you two getting along." 

Right. "I'm gonna go sit in the kitchen to charge my phone," you say, hopping to your feet. "Thanks for the charger, Bucky." 

"No problem," Bucky replies, as coolly as if the last five minutes hadn't happened. 

"But there's an outlet right—" You don't let Steve finish that sentence, sweeping right by him to the kitchen. You are _not_ going to sit with Bucky Barnes alone for another second while Steve gets ready to go. 

Ten minutes later, Steve pops into the kitchen, dressed in preppy cuffed shorts and a tank top. This is when you finally learn your boyfriend owns boaters. Your battery is at 48%, which is good enough to get you back home. "Ready to go?" he asks. 

You respond by unplugging your phone and wrapping your arms around his neck to give him a quick kiss. "Yeah," you add, in case it wasn't clear. 

Both parks at Coney are still open by the time you get there, the sun still not quite setting. Steve pays for most of the rides and games, chivalrous enough to not invoke your unsteady income and instead insisting he just wants to, and it's a fun night. You pay for two big cones of cotton candy that you take back out onto the boardwalk, and you fall for the oldest trick in the book when Steve points at some distant point on the beach for you to look at, just to take a big bite out of your cotton candy because he already finished his. You smack him in the stomach for it, then pretend like you're going to take it back by kissing him by the railing. 

You finish your cotton candy waiting on line for the Wonder Wheel, and you'd end up having to hang onto the paper cone, but Steve flattens it and sticks it in his back pocket. You look up at him while he squints at the front of the line, like he might be trying to gauge how much longer the wait will be. 

You haven't had this in so long. Steve is so good, so loving. His arm is so easy around your shoulder, and it feels just as easy to put yours around his waist. Your stupid paper cone sticks out of his pocket and pokes the back of your hand when he shifts a certain way. It makes your heart hurt when you think back to the last time your life was anything like this. 

At least Riley didn't like going on the Wonder Wheel. This one's just for you and Steve. 

At the top of the wheel, you can see the whole boardwalk, dark and glittering at the same time. Steve kisses you, just on the cheek while you're looking out the side of the car, and then deeper when you turn his way to reciprocate. You end up straddling his lap, like most other couples who get up here, grinding against his belly while you make out, Steve's hands massaging your ass. 

"Hey," Steve whispers when you break for breath. 

"What?" you pant, sitting back on his thighs. The wheel starts to clank back to life, and you slip back into place next to Steve as your car makes its way down to the next stopping point. 

"Are you happy, Sam?" 

You snort, gesture at the boner you can't do anything about but wait for it to die. "Stupid question, don't you think?" 

Steve laughs, but there's a nervousness to it. "I mean like... _Happy_ happy. I know we've only been going out for a little while—" 

"You just checking in, or something?" You slide your hand down his thigh until you find his hand in return, and clasp your fingers with his to squeeze. 

"I guess." He squeezes back. "I just don't want you to feel like you're, you know. Settling." 

"Settling for what? Is this about having to put up with Bucky?" you laugh. 

"No, I mean—" Steve fidgets, unable to articulate his point. But he looks at you, at your hands twined together, and shakes his head with his own laugh, much gentler than the last. "Never mind. I lost the thought anyway." 

You don't fully believe him, but you're willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, you forget about all that _and_ the bullshit with Bucky when Steve follows you home for a change and shows you a new blow job technique he read about on the Internet. He still doesn't let you touch him down below, but he lets you see him full frontal now, and he pushes his face into your chest while he brings himself to orgasm, panting against your skin. 

Meanwhile your apology to Bucky continues to mean nothing. Whatever his problem is, it runs deeper than a bad first impression. He doesn't throw anything at you again, at least, but for the next few weeks he's even surlier than before. It used to be that when Steve caught him looking at you, he'd at least smile at Steve and patter off, but now he can't muster up more than a blank expression. 

If he would at least just hole up in his room when you were over, it would be bearable. But no, he's got to make sure you get the full force of whatever the fuck his damage is. You make an effort to get Steve over to your place more often, even buying doubles you can't fully afford of some of the toys he owns—even the harness, which carries a particularly painful price tag. Spending the money is better than being confronted with the man who accepts no apology. 

You almost hope Steve doesn't notice how little you go to Sheepshead Bay anymore, avoiding the dark cloud of Bucky's presence, but he's too smart for that. He drags it out of you when you meet him at his job and you work on convincing him, again, to come to Bed-Stuy instead. 

He's angrier than you've ever seen him. He doesn't apologize for Bucky, or try to convince you it's just Bucky's personality. In fact, he marches his ass straight to the train that would take him home, and you end up swept along as he stamps up the stairs of his building and throws open the door. 

"Bucky!" Steve shouts, which rouses a sleepy Bucky from the couch with a start. It looks like he fell asleep watching TV again, with the ubiquitous beer bottle in his hand. 

"I thought you said you were going to be nice to Sam," Steve says, and suddenly he's switched from angry to disappointed. That feeling of calling Bucky's parents on him comes back. "Now I find out Sam doesn't even want to come over anymore because all you do is make him feel unwelcome." 

"I don't—" Bucky is still groggy, the beer bottle clinking against his teeth when he rubs the heel of his hand against his eye. "What?" 

"Apologize to Sam." Steve points back at you. "Whatever your problem is, spit it out." 

"I'm fine," Bucky says now that he's awake, resettling on the couch to sit facing the TV. "There's no problem." 

"So what, Sam is just making it up? Because he, what, doesn't like Sheepshead Bay?" 

"Or he doesn't like you that much," Bucky says with a chuckle. 

It's a joke. You can tell it's a joke. It's a bad, poorly timed joke, and it's mean-spirited, but it's a joke. Even you know Bucky doesn't really mean it. 

Steve never gets that memo. His breath catches as he looks back at you, and you grab him by the elbow, shaking your head. Not true. 

"Why," Steve begins, and you can hear a little tremor in his voice, "would you say something like that? You—you _know_ what it's been like for me—" 

You're out of your depth for this part of the conversation, but whatever Steve is talking about, Bucky seems to remember it too, horror dawning on his face. "Steve, I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry—" 

"Tell it to Sam!" Steve barks over him. His face is red, but it almost seems like a different shade when it's not from embarrassment or arousal. This is rage. 

A different kind of realization spreads across Bucky's features, and he's quiet while it does. He bares his teeth. "Fine," he says. "How about this?" 

Bucky gets up. He goes to his room, and Steve follows at a fast clip, practically stepping on his heels once he catches up. You follow at a much longer distance, so when you finally get a look into Bucky's room, he's piling clothes into a duffel bag. 

"How about this?" Bucky repeats, snatching his belongings from around the room while Steve watches. "I'll go move in with Natasha, if I'm such a fucking problem, and then you won't have to deal with me!" He packs haphazardly, fuming too much to fold anything, and the bag fills up fast. "Then Sam can come over _all the time_ , and you two can fuck on the ceiling for all I care, because I won't fucking _be here!"_

Steve seems to literally shrink under Bucky's words, his shoulders folding in, his knees bent. "Bucky, you don't have to go," he says, and gone is the bass and the boom of just a few minutes ago, replaced with something small and pleading. 

"Yes I do," Bucky grunts, zipping up his duffel bag as best he can when it's so overstuffed and he's only got one hand. "Bye, Steve." He hefts the long strap over his right shoulder, and starts heading for the door of his room, which makes Steve turn around, and now you can see his face, full of deep-seated fear. 

_He ran away once_ echoes in your head. You can guess what Steve is reliving, watching Bucky leave. 

"Buck, please," Steve says as he chases his friend past you, "please, don't go, don't leave! I'm sorry!" 

_Steve's_ sorry? 

Bucky pauses by the couch, looking back at Steve. 

"Whatever you want, that's what we'll do. We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. Just—" Steve swallows, big and thick like he might cry. "Don't go." 

Bucky's face softens, and he drops the bag on the floor. "Don't cry, man," he says in a near-whisper that you can barely hear from your spot over by Bucky's room still. 

"Don't leave," Steve says again, all bunched up against himself. 

"I'm sorry, Steve," Bucky murmurs, and he puts his arm around Steve, who sags against him. "I'm an asshole. I'm sorry. I'm not going anywhere." 

And that quick, it's over. 

Except—you swear you just saw Bucky manipulate the shit out of Steve, whether he masterminded it or not. And you should bite your tongue, because it's their friendship, but the end result is still that you don't want to come back to this apartment. _You_ want to leave. 

"So that's it?" The word start spilling out of you before you even realize it. "Bucky stays, and keeps on hating my ass for no discernible reason?" 

Steve bites his lip as he steps away from Bucky, and looks at you, then Bucky again. 

"Who's supposed to leave then? Me?" This time the shakes aren't just in your hands, reaching all the way to your core. 

"No," Steve says, soft as he approaches you. "No, not at all." 

"Then what the fuck is the resolution here?" Steve takes your hands but you snatch them away, taking a step back while you try to keep a handle on the vertigo lurking at the back of your brain. You look straight at Bucky, taking herky jerky breaths through your nose. "Get your shit together! Don't fucking manipulate Steve with that _leaving_ shit just because you want me to go! That's not—" Breathe. _Breathe._ "That's not fucking fair to Steve!" 

"You don't know what you're talking about," Bucky says, voice full of warning. "You don't know—" 

"I know enough!" you shout, gesturing wildly at him. "I know Steve is always scared you'll leave again, or he wouldn't always be making you text him that you made it home like he's your goddamn parent!" The vertigo is getting closer. "So of _course_ anything you don't want to deal with gets swept away the second you threaten to make him feel like that again!" 

"You don't know _what_ I've been through! You have _no_ fucking clue what it's like to be this way!" Bucky bellows, taking a step forward. "You've never been through anything like this!" 

The words knock the air out of you. 

_It was a car accident._

And you can't get that air back, suddenly. 

_"It was a car accident," Riley's mother sobbed, and your phone fell from your numb fingers._

"You think you're the only person who's ever suffered?" Your field of vision is narrowed to just Bucky, and all the better, so now you don't have to see how you're fucking up anything you had with Steve. "You think—" 

_An email from the wedding caterer in front of you. A ring on your finger that suddenly felt like it was made of molten iron, heavy and painful._

You don't want to cry. You never meant to think of Riley. You don't want to fucking cry. 

_It was a car accident. It was a car accident that killed Riley, which you found out later was at least an instant death. "He didn't suffer," an official person would say later. You got left behind to do all the suffering._

"You don't know _anything_ about me, little boy! You think you can keep everyone dancing to your fucking tune because it's all about you and what you been through, but you don't know a goddamn _thing!"_ The words come out loud and sharp, but your vision is blurred, and suddenly strong, warm arms are encircling you. 

Steve pulls you close, and you're too fucked up to do anything but let him, your limbs weak, your head a cross stream of fury and heartache. Bucky looks panicked. 

And then he doesn't, because all you see is the back of him as he sprints out the door. No bag, no phone, no keys. Just gone. Steve is slowed down by having to let go of you, roaring Bucky's name as he takes off after him, and you sink to the floor. 

Steve doesn't catch him. You know he doesn't catch him, because he comes back too soon, and takes you into his arms, whispering that he's sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it me or are sam's chapters always longer? ANYWAY the usual disclaimer re: comments, as in i accept any and all comments, every comment is a good comment, and don't worry if it's coherent or eloquent or whatever the hell. i also now have a fandom sideblog at [softsams](http://softsams.tumblr.com) so you can bother me there if you don't want to deal with my main!


	6. bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky learns to use his words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is coming late because of Problems but better late than never? i assume no one is finding this fic out of being updated at a convenient time to put it on the front page of the sambucky tag on this site so whatever

You don't know where you thought you were going to go. By the time you're away from home for a whole hour, you already know—this isn't going to be a repeat of last time. No disappearing. No reset on your life. 

But you know you can't just turn around, either. And you're not ready to be found. 

At first, you take the A train all the way into Queens, and get off at the airport. You pay extra to get on the air train, whoosh around the terminals a few times before you pick one to wander. Even knowing you'll go back to Steve eventually, you sit with an overpriced burrito and consider what it'd be like to _really_ run, to leave not just New York but the country, start somewhere so fresh you can't even speak the language. Bucharest, maybe. 

The sun is rising when you get back on the A. Your shift at the restaurant is starting in a few hours. You should call out, be responsible about your irresponsibility. Even when you were in hiding, you were a good employee, showed up for your McDonald's shifts on time. But you forgot your phone. 

You head into Manhattan, make it out to the ferry. At this hour service is only just starting to pick up for commuters, and it's a decently long wait with nothing to distract you but thoughts of how this is the wrong thing to do. 

You stand at the front of the ferry, smelling the salt air, the rank undertones of the river's spray. You grip the railing, wonder briefly if the boat would push you under or just aside if you fell over. You wonder what Steve is doing. If Sam's there. 

At St. George's on the other side of the water, you board the first bus you see, and sit by the window to watch the drastic changes in neighborhood go by. This neighborhood has hedges and big houses, but the next one looks slapdash and broken down, and the one after that has massive front yards with brick fences. You stay on long enough to see the houses on your left give way to the beach, straight up, with people playing volleyball on the sand across from white houses with American flags. It's hard to believe this is part of New York City. 

You don't stay on Staten Island though. By the time you make it back to Manhattan it's close to noon, and the night is catching up with you. You doze on the train, and people start to give you your space, because you're grubby and a little smelly and only have one arm, a bunch of unrelated things that combine to probably make people think you're homeless. You transfer aimlessly a few times when you hit midtown, but it's not long before you find yourself chugging toward Coney Island. You can't help yourself. It's too easy, too safe. 

You hope Steve still went to work. It's your fault if he didn't. You'll have to apologize to him for that, too, when you go back. 

You sit on the sand this time, legs stretched out in front of you on the slope of the beach while you watch the surf. It's almost the end of the summer, numerically, with school starting again next week, but it feels as muggy as ever, the air like hot breath even when the ocean breeze blows. 

It's not that—it's not that you _hate_ Sam. Sam is incidental to how you feel. 

It's knowing that you're a _problem_. No one would listen to you when you said Sam was trouble, because you thought he was being a deliberate asshole at your show, and it turned out you were wrong, on every front. You hung onto these bad feelings like they were all you had, and by the time Sam blew away your last excuse for them, it was too late for you and your piece of shit brain. You couldn't let go. 

Steve would be better off without you. He just doesn't know it yet. 

Someone kicks a spray of sand at you after hours (maybe) of lying on the beach, and you yelp, holding up your hand while you sit up. "What the fuck is your probl—" 

"Asshole! Piece of shit!" Natasha interrupts, kicking up another arc of sand as she approaches. You're still spitting out grit when she tosses an empty soda can at your face and it bounces off your forehead. 

"Jesus, Nat!" you splutter as you start to scramble to your feet, but she connects the top of her foot with the side of your ribs, flattening you. All the air belts out of you as you land on your stomach, and it keeps you there just long enough for her to plant herself in front of your face. She grabs you by the back of your hair, yanks up painfully until you look up at her. 

She's crying. You can remember the last time you saw Natasha cry, and it was in tenth grade, running on adrenaline and injustice when the girl she thought was her friend "found out" she liked girls and tried to slap her. The girl in question got her front tooth chipped in return, but it didn't give her a friendship back, or make the betrayal hurt less. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" she shouts, letting go of your hair once you start getting to your knees. People look, of course, because New Yorkers aren't always as discreet as their reputation says, and she looks right back at all of them. "The fuck are you looking at? Mind your fucking business!" 

"I didn't think—" You rub at the sore spot on your scalp, wincing. "Jesus, Natasha, that fucking hurt!" 

"Oh, that hurt? That _hurt?"_ She laughs, and you shrink under it. "How about not being able to find your ass again? How about you leaving with no fucking—" She fumbles in the little crossbody bag slung over her torso, and pulls out your phone to hurl it just shy of hitting your knee. "—With no fucking phone, no way to fucking contact you! You selfish, _thoughtless_ sack of shit!" 

You pluck your phone out of the sand, dusting it off and sighing. "I know I worried Steve, but—" 

" _Steve?"_ Her brows arch big and her eyes are wild as she laughs again. She grabs you by two fistfuls of your shirt, pulls until you have no choice but to stumble all the way up. "You thought _Steve_ was the only one worried about you? Sorry, Bucky, do I not count? Is he your only _fucking_ friend?" 

Oh. 

"No, Nat," you sigh. "I just—I don't know. I'm sorry." 

She shoves you back, and you hit your back hard when you fall, devoid of balance. "I ought to kick your ass!" she hollers over you as she stomps over to be next to your head again, as if she hadn't just done plenty of that. 

"That one really hurt, Natasha," you groan, squeezing your eyes shut. "I'm sorry, okay?" 

"Say the thing." She glowers from above, not ready to care about your pain yet. 

"The thing is from middle school." 

"I don't care. Say the thing." Natasha is absolutely resolute. 

You sigh, wincing again. You might have hit a rock with your back. "I'm sorry, Queen Natalia of every beach—" 

"Ahem!" 

"—Of every _fucking_ beach, whose feet don't touch the sand when she walks, I am so unworthy, I'm just a six-pack holder someone forgot to cut up and I'm probably going to kill a seagull named Bob, because I am bad, and for all of the above, I'm sorry." 

"That's better." And Natasha finally offers you an arm to help you up. 

Once she's pulled all of your bulk back to your feet, you sigh, and say, "I really am sorry, Nat. I didn't think you'd get so, you know. Worked up over a bum like me." 

"Worked up?" The shades sitting on top of her head drop neatly onto the bridge of her nose, covering up any evidence she's cried, and she shrugs. "I don't get worked up. And I definitely wouldn't get worked up over 'a bum like you.' Please." 

"Oh, so you didn't come out here and make a scene because you missed me?" you snicker, following her back to the boardwalk. 

"Nope. Can't recall anything like that. I'm just here to pick up some asshole, because some big eyed white boy a couple stops up said he was late coming home." 

"Right, because all you want is to drink alone and complain about work alone." You catch up to her and give her a big elbow, but she doesn't miss a step. 

"Hey. I've got Sharon for that now, remember? You're disposable." But she looks at you over the tops of her sunglasses, and her eyes are still red-rimmed. "But don't ever fucking do this again, or I'll drown you." 

"I believe it," you snort. 

On the short ride home Natasha continues to berate you, not just on fucking up but also for not even hiding that far from home. You tell her you went all the way out to the airport but she just says you'd be on a plane already if that were true. And she's not wrong, exactly; if you didn't care about paying rent anymore, you could have definitely paid for a one way flight somewhere. 

It feels familiar and weird all at once when Steve opens the door. He looks at you eye to eye, chest heaving, for just a moment before throwing his arms around you and squeezing until you can barely breathe. He hides his face in your shoulder while he hugs you, and Natasha rolls her eyes to slip past the pair of you into the apartment. She's already finding snacks in the kitchen, shoes kicked under the coffee table, by the time Steve straightens up. Snacks, not alcohol, you note. 

"Sorry, Steve," you say in a small voice as he holds you out at arm's length. 

"Don't do this to me again," he says, voice a little bigger than yours, and no less shaky. "Please, Bucky." 

"I know. I fucked up." You look away, and Steve sighs as he goes to close the door and lock it, finally. 

Steve sits on the couch first, and as you're lowering yourself to sit next to him, Natasha comes back into the living room, dusting Cheeto powder off her hands. "Well, I bet you boys have plenty to talk about. I was up all night, so I'm gonna go crash, and I don't want to be disturbed." She looks at you. "If you need anything from your room for the next three or four hours, _oh well._ That's what you get." 

"Fair," you say, shrugging. You start to grin, but you look at Steve again, and it fades right off your face. 

Natasha closes your bedroom door behind her, and Steve leans his elbows on his knees heavily, with another sigh. 

"Why did you run, Bucky?" 

You have plenty of quips, easy answers that dodge the issue. But that's not what Steve wants. 

"Bad impulse. I'm—I'm fucked up. I know it wasn't right." You lean back to drum your fingers on top of your stomach, as if the distance will help, but Steve isn't having it, and he changes position that quick, leaning back too. 

"You haven't—" Steve swallows, thick like his mouth is dry. "You weren't like this before Sam. Threatening to leave and running like that. Not since—" 

"I know." You do. You want to look anywhere else, but now Steve is looking you dead in the eye and you'd be an asshole to break the contact. "I'm sorry, Steve." 

This time Steve's sigh comes with pinched brows and a new kind of sigh, one laced with frustration. "You keep saying sorry, but you won't tell me _why_ you ran. Why you're like this with Sam." 

"It's not about Sam," you say. Which you immediately regret, because that's at least half a lie. 

"Then tell me what it _is_ about. Because I can't have you just disappearing on me like that. I can't take it again. I can't do it." He grabs your hand, which at least gives you an excuse to look down. 

"You could always just stop being friends with me," you joke with a rueful little smile. As if Steve hasn't been your friend since before kindergarten. "I'll move out." 

"Don't even joke about that." At least Steve is smiling in return. "You'd have to, I dunno, try to throw me off a building to make that happen." 

"Don't tempt me," you snort, just to say it. But you squeeze his hand, and Steve waits. You heave a sigh of your own. "Maybe it's a little bit about Sam." 

"Tell me why." 

You chew your lip. "He's better than me." 

Steve fixes you with an incredulous look. "It's not a competition, you know. You're my best friend. He's my boyfriend. Completely different niches. No Darwinian shit here." 

"So you don't think he underscores all my bad points? And how they outnumber anything good I have going for me?" 

That makes him laugh. "I think you do that to yourself, Buck." 

"Hey." You nudge him with your stump, and only Steve is never grossed out by its touch. Even Natasha tends to shy away from being brushed with it, accident or not. "I thought you were trying to make me feel better, jackass." 

"Did I say that?" Steve snorts, shaking his head. "What I mean is Sam isn't doing anything but existing, and whatever that makes you feel, you can't pin them on him." 

It makes your throat tighten, Steve's words. They shouldn't. It makes you a baby, having this reaction, your brain rushing with things you don't think you can say anymore. _I feel like I'm in the way. I feel like you don't need me. I feel like it's right for me to leave._

"Bucky." Steve nudges you back. "Stay with me." 

"I'm listening," you say, your eyes still unfocused. 

"Tell me what you're thinking. I know that look." 

"What look?" You put your hand on your face and spread the fingers. "You can't even see my face, Steve. There's no _look_." 

Steve peels your hand off your face. "Okay, see, this is how you got away with me thinking you were okay with Sam all this time, because you won't tell me anything." You drop your hand back into your lap. "Even when I ask. You know, nicely." 

You swallow. "I feel like I'm in the way," you say, while Steve is still chuckling, and it silences him instantly. 

"What, of me and Sam?" 

Instead of answering, you keep reading off your mental list. "I feel like you don't need me." And before Steve can ask more questions, before your courage falters— "I feel like it's right for me to leave." 

"What?" Steve's face is screwed into such a deep frown he looks legitimately angry. "Bucky—" 

"You asked what I was thinking." You shrug, stare at your knees. "I feel like a problem." 

"You're not—" 

"And if I'm too much of a problem, then—" You work your jaw, as if chewing your next words. "Then you'd want me to leave, anyway." 

"Bucky, what the fuck." Steve touches his fingertips to his temples, then holds his hands straight out next to his face. "Are you stupid?" 

"Stupid—!" It feels like your whole body rises in offense. 

"The whole theme of the past two days has been that I _do not_ want you to goddamn leave! That I am _scared_ of you leaving! Are you fucking kidding me, 'you'd want me to leave'?" He crooks his fingers in big air quotes around your words. "You think I want a repeat of the eleven months you were gone? You think I had fun with that?" 

"I mean, you seemed okay—" 

"No!" Steve reaches to grab you by both shoulders, pulling your body to face his so he can shake you. He lets go within seconds of realizing it, though, biting his lip. "Sorry. Just—I wasn't, alright? I thought you were fucking dead. You know that." 

You do. This is not the first conversation you've had about this. 

You raise your one hand. "Fine. Steven Grant Rogers, I solemnly swear I will never even threaten or pretend to run away from you or otherwise disappear, ever again." 

"That's all I want," he says, laughing a nervous laugh while he presses his palm to his forehead. "That, and you, you know, being good to Sam. You're both important to me." 

"It's probably too late for him to like me." You try a grin to soften the edges of your words. 

"Bullshit. Just be nice to him, punk." Steve nudges you again, this time hard enough to make you fall halfway over. 

"You know, you sound like an old man when you say shit like that," you say as you push yourself back upright, but Steve just laughs. You promise him, properly, that you'll be nice to Sam. You expect Sam will tell you to square up the next time you see him, honestly, but Steve seems to think it's gonna be nothing but rainbows and sunshine ahead, and you don't want to be the one to dump on his fantasy. Let reality do that. 

Steve also tells you Sam is in DC for a few days, staying with his friend Rhodey. He tells you it's unrelated, but his eyes flick to the wall a few times when he says so, and you know better than to be convinced. 

The next day Steve needs to stay an extra hour at the gym to cover someone coming in late from a family emergency—always the trooper—so after your workout, you go back with Natasha instead, tagging along after her and Sharon. Really, you figured you'd just go home—after everything, being a third wheel is the last thing you want—but Natasha said she wanted you to know Sharon a little better, beyond being Steve's coworker, Nat's girlfriend (though you haven't heard Nat use that word yet), and also just an immensely intimidating block of muscle. 

It's funny, watching them walk together. Natasha fully commits to holding Sharon's hand, but there are none of the mushy looks that you've seen Sam and Steve share. Instead Natasha just talks to Sharon like any other friend, about work, about people or things she doesn't like, pointing out bars and stores she wants to go to sometime. (Not right now, though. Never right now.) Natasha wears all black; not even Sharon's socks are black. 

At Natasha's place, you grab a beer out of the fridge and set up on the couch while Natasha and Sharon dart around in the back hall. Natasha said they just had to do one thing before coming to sit with you. It's the loud buzzing that brings you into the hallway, even if a deeper instinct says you should leave that good and alone. 

Natasha is changed out of her chic early fall outfit and dressed in a bleach-stained giant T-shirt, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Sharon sits on the toilet lid behind her, attending to her head with electric clippers that are plugged in under the light over the cabinet mirror. You lean on the doorframe, taking a sip from your beer bottle. 

"Sharon's giving me a new look for the fall," Natasha says with a grin. 

"I'm trying to, anyway," Sharon says, looking dubiously at her work. "I don't really know where you want me to stop shaving." 

"Like, right here," Natasha says, reaching back to run her fingers along an invisible line on her skull. 

"Where?" Sharon says, touching an obvious couple of inches over from where Natasha indicated. "Here?" 

"Wh—no, Sharon—" Natasha turns around, but Sharon is grinning, and she gives Natasha a surprise peck on the mouth. 

"Just kidding. I saw exactly where you want me to cut, I just wanted to see if that would work." Sharon grins even wider. "I can't believe you fell for that." 

"It's like, the fifth oldest trick in the book," Natasha grumbles as she lets Sharon gently manipulate her skull back into optimal place, keeping still once the clippers are put to her scalp again. 

It's so much easier to be around them than Sam and Steve. But maybe some of that is all about you giving Sharon a chance. (Or something. You've done way too much thinking lately.) 

After the hair cut and subsequent cleanup, Natasha running her hands over the newly shorn sides of her head, Sharon turns on Natasha's PS4. You trade off playing Street Fighter, the loser of every match switching with whoever's waiting. Natasha stays as player one with Juri, until Sharon finds her power in Cammy, and you finally get to play against Sharon, who _also_ knocks out your Ryu. 

Steve said Sam would be gone three days, you're pretty sure, but your real clue to Sam's return is when you catch Steve smiling at his phone, twiddling his toes together on the couch. Or, well, that could just be Sam sending a picture you don't need to see or know about, but the timing feels right. 

You make your plan. 

After you clock out the following day, you order food from work, enough for two; you endure your manager's laughing jabs about how you don't need that much food for yourself, and did you finally find a lady, maybe? You know, a blind chick who won't know what she's signing up for? Your manager thrusts the dessert menu in your face and taps it, guffawing as he tells you you'll need to _sweeten the deal_. You keep your face stony, even when you thank the sous chef for handing you your takeout containers personally. 

You admit—and maybe this makes you a creep, but you hope you're making up for it with everything else—that you got Sam's address out of Steve's phone. He's a nerd who likes to fill out everyone's contact info as fully as possible; you know he even filled out the address for yours, despite living with you. It's easy to get to Bedford-Stuyvesant from work, at least. 

When you reach Sam's building, though, you stand at the gate, looking up the stoop at the front door that suddenly seems like the peak of a mountain. You take deep breaths. Maybe this is the wrong idea. Maybe Sam will hate you more. Maybe Steve will be disappointed. Maybe you're crossing boundaries. You've always had a harder time distinguishing them. 

You should probably go home. But what if this is your only chance to make amends, and you just can't see it yet? 

After another five minutes of mental back and forth, you decide you should go, just tell Steve you decided to bring home dinner from work for no particular reason. And as you're turning to leave, the front door starts to click open. 

Sam stands at the top of the stoop, holding the door open as he stares down at you. 

"Hey," you say, nodding. You hope it's as nonchalant as your thudding heart is not. 

"Hey," Sam replies, slower, wary. "I, uh, see Steve found you." 

"Yeah," you say, shrugging a little too deep. 

His eyes move from your face to the plastic bag and back to your face. "What you got there?" 

"This?" You hold up the bag of food like you're just noticing it. "Burgers and fries." 

"Burgers, like, what, plural?" He's still holding the front door open. There are keys in his other hand, with the smallest of them held forward, and he's wearing sweats and a faded T-shirt with slides. Checking the mail, you'd guess. Or trying to, until you showed up. 

"Two burgers, yeah." You hold the bag forward. An offering. 

Sam finally takes his eyes off you, glancing up and down the block like he's about to make a shady deal. "You wanna come up?" He pockets his keys, though his shoulders stay square. 

It's weird, following Sam up the two flights to his apartment. Everything about this feels too personal, from the lighting of the hallway to his beat up slides to accidentally being eye level with his ass. He unlocks his door, and silently ushers you into an apartment that's much smaller than the one you share with Steve. It looks nicer, though, cleaner, better decorated. The couch doesn't bear the same kind of grandpa ass prints, that's for sure. 

As soon as the door's closed, though, Sam drops his keys in a bowl by the kitchen trash and crosses his arms. "Alright. What's this about?" 

You point at the containers you've unloaded onto the counter. "Burgers and fries, like I said." 

"So you just showed up to my house, even though I know I've never personally given you my address, with food for two people, and that's just that. Nothing deeper." 

"Well—" You can feel your face flushing, and god, you wish you could punch yourself right in the eye for it. "No. I mean, the burgers are a peace offering, I guess." 

"A peace offering." Sam shifts his weight to one leg, not moving from his spot by the front door. 

"Yeah. Uh, yeah." You're left holding the empty plastic bag, and you don't know what to do with it. You assume, like everyone else, Sam has a bag of bags under the sink, but you don't go into someone else's bag of bags like that, especially not in the middle of a tense conversation like this one. "Well. Shit, uh—" 

"Yeah?" That slight note of demand in his voice jacks your anxiety up three thousand percent, but you remind yourself it's justified. You're not the injured party here. 

Deep breath, James. Deeper. "I came," you say, "to apologize to you." 

Sam sighs through his nose, unfolds his arms and gestures toward the couch. "Then we better take a seat." He gestures next at your feet. "Take off your shoes, though." 

You sit at opposite ends of a couch that's still pretty small, the food far away on the counter. You guess the food won't be accepted unless your apology is. 

"You have the floor," Sam says, leaning back into the corner of the couch. 

You clear your throat a few times, nerves thrumming in your limbs, your chest. You suddenly wish you'd pulled your hair back, but to tie it now would look like stalling. 

"I'm... I'm sorry," you finally say. "For everything. I've been a huge asshole to you, and you didn't deserve any of it." 

Sam arches a single brow, which is a skill you didn't know he had. "Is that so?" 

Jesus Christ. "Yeah. You didn't—you didn't sign up for any of my bullshit when all you wanted to do was date Steve. I can't take out my problems on you." 

"Is that what you were doing?" 

You roll your lip between your teeth, over and over until it feels a little raw. You've been mentally rehearsing this for over 24 hours. "I know Steve told you about everything. It's not an excuse for how I treated you." 

Sam frowns and leans forward, just a little. "Is 'everything' in this case the time you ran away for like, a year?" 

"Yeah." You rest your hand on your belly, drum the fingers. "Oh! And, shit. I'm sorry about the charger." You wave your hand around your face. "You know, the one I, uh. Threw at you." 

"As opposed to some other charger?" Sam snorts. "Don't even worry about that one, man, that's part and parcel of everything you're apologizing for." 

"No, that part was especially shitty of me, that gets its own apology," you argue, sitting up. 

"You're right," Sam says, holding up a hand. "You were real shitty all over, though. I never understood what your problem was with me. I thought it was the comedy night thing, but when I apologized for that, you just stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language, or something, then straight up lied to my face about there not being a problem. You know, after throwing a charger at my face." 

This was the hardest part of the apology to map out in your moments daydreaming at work. "I don't know," you say. And then, "No. That's not true." 

"So out with it." 

You think about what you told Steve, close your eyes for just a moment. "You're better than me." 

Sam lets out a nervous bark of a laugh, glancing around. "What?" 

You sigh. "I thought, I dunno, with you around Steve would finally figure out what an albatross around the neck I am, and finally wanna get rid of me." 

Sam grabs at the side of his head. "Is that a joke? This is a man who won't let you go home without texting that you made it back safely, when you're a grown man over 30. If I were a shrink—and I'm not—I'd say you two are practically codependent." 

Your chuckle ends in a hiccup. "I know, I know. We talked about that part, he and I. I promised him I'd never pull even threatening to leave on him again." 

"Good," Sam says, pointing at you. "Because that was fucked up. I could not believe I was watching that." 

"Yeah." You can only agree. "We're gonna try to be less—the thing you said." 

"Codependent." 

"Yeah, that." You scratch your chin, keeping your eyes trained on the coffee table. "When we talked, the other thing he said is that you're important to him." 

That makes Sam a little bashful, his fingers flying to his mouth with his index finger just resting on his bottom lip. "Is that what he said?" 

"Yeah." You hope it's not too early to smile, small as yours is. "And Steve is important to me, so by proxy, you—you know." 

"What, am I supposed to be important to you, too?" Sam laughs. 

"Well, yeah." Try to play it off casual. "Why, you got anyone that needs beating up?" You feel lightheaded when you flex your arm, praying you're not being too friendly too quick. 

But Sam rewards you, striking a dramatically thoughtful pose with his hand on his chin. "Well, there _is_ this one guy I knew in high school..." Then he laughs, real and clear and _god_ it feels good to hear. You just hope it's for you. 

"The point is, I'm sorry. For all of it. I want us to be good, for Steve's sake. But it's up to you if that's what you want, too." You hold your hand out, vibrating with your jangling nerves. 

Sam studies your hand, then your face. Really searches it, while your hand stays suspended between the two of you. Something in his expression softens, and then he takes your hand, giving it a firm shake that finally releases you from your anxiety hell. "Yeah. Let's be good. For Steve's sake, right?" And he hits you with that smile of his that you've only ever experienced from the side, gap toothed and brilliant. 

As you're tearing into the burgers and fries, supplemented by Sam's personal collection of mustards, ketchups and other sauces, you speak up again. "So we're really cool?" 

Sam wipes ketchup off his lips and sets his burger down on the lid of his takeout container. "I mean, not a hundred percent, no, but we're cool enough," he says. He dips a fry into a mustard-BBQ mix, one of many he's daubed onto a plate like a paint palette. "We all of us do stupid shit. Just give it time." 

"Not as stupid as running away for almost a year because of bad feelings," you laugh, reaching a fry toward one of Sam's sauce mixes. He slaps your hand away, directs you to the pile of ketchup you've poured yourself. Right, not a hundred percent cool. 

"I mean," Sam says, as you dip the fry in the ketchup instead, "some pretty stupid shit." He turns to look at you. "A year after my fiancé died, I was still in DC bumming off my friend Rhodey's couch and good will, and I was so fucked up I tried to kiss him." Sam snorts at himself. "You know, my best friend." 

You feel like you got dropped into a story too late. "I didn't know about your fiancé. I'm sorry." 

Sam waves his hand. "I don't—I try not to dwell on it. I don't want to be that person again." 

"What happened?" you ask, then immediately curse yourself for not catching that obvious cue to drop it. 

But Sam looks at you, and your stump. "Car accident. Instant death." 

Your skin feels cold. _Car accident._ You remember the moment you lost control. The moment your car crunched around you. Waking up, over and over. 

"I'm sorry," you say again, but your lips feel numb when you say it. 

Sam puts a hand to the shoulder of your stump. "We've both been through some shit, huh?" 

"Yeah." It comes out soft. "Yeah, we have." And when you look at Sam, really _look_ him dead in the eye, there's an understanding blossoming there that you think he sees in your eyes, too. 

You pull out your phone and turn on your front camera, holding it at arm's length above you and Sam. "Let's text this to Steve." Sam chuckles, and you end up taking a few photos, including one where you're both biting deep into your burgers, ketchup splurting out the side of yours. That's the one you send Steve, completely free of context, and you get a long string of replies back that start out as confused, then happy, then thrilled. You show them to Sam and he laughs from the gut. 

A week later, your apartment is full of chatter, and you're clattering around in the kitchen. Sam, Natasha and Sharon are over for dinner, which was your suggestion, and because it was your suggestion you're also the one cooking dinner. With a complement of heavy-bottomed cookware and rubber mats of various sizes, you're pretty able to cook most things; you call on Steve whenever something heavy needs to come out of the oven. Besides, it doesn't take two arms to know how to season something. 

"You need anything?" Steve asks as he pops into the kitchen, heading for the fridge. He bends to pull a bottle of wine from the bottom of the door, then heads to the cabinet to collect wine glasses between his fingers. 

"I need the macaroni out in like," you squint at the timer you've set, "five minutes. Other than that, no." 

Steve pauses in the entrance to the kitchen, swinging the wine bottle a little. "I'm proud of you, Bucky." 

"For what, cooking dinner? I'm doing this to save us all from your idea of how much garlic is enough garlic." You stir the swiss chard in its pan, check the breaded fish fillets bubbling away on the burner next to it. "Here's a hint: One clove of garlic is never enough." 

Steve snorts, looking away for a moment while the wine glasses clink in his grasp. "Sam thought I put you up to that apology. I really had to convince him I didn't know. It was the fact that you stole his address out of my phone that finally got him to believe me." 

"Oh." You start setting up a rack with paper towels for the fish fillets. "I mean... I had to." 

"I'm glad you did." Steve shifts his legs. "I'll be back in five to get the macaroni out, Buck." He heads back into the living room. 

"Four minutes, now," you call after him. 

Dinner is, in fact, an astounding success. Natasha and Steve already knew about your cooking prowess, even if you can only trot it out on special occasions, but to Sam and Sharon it's a revelation. Sam is especially vocal about how good the macaroni is; your secret is buttermilk and heavy cream, and rye bread crumbs. 

What you discover, over food, wine, more wine, and plenty of conversation, is Sam's personality. You already knew he was good to Steve, but now all these parts of Sam once denied to you by your own bad behavior are wide open, and it's as jarring as it is amazing. He's funny, he's biting, he's insightful, he's thoughtful. When he laughs it's loud, almost too loud, but everyone else is laughing just as much. He talks to you, sometimes, like directly to you, with your name and everything. Steve must have been right; Sam never hated you. 

You're still playing host as you try to collect as many empty plates as you can with one hand, and Sam looks away from the table as his laughter trails off. He's still smiling, residually, but when he looks at you, he smiles anew, a full gap tooth grin just between you and him. 

Your heart thumps. You hurry into the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the usual!! your comments really do help shape the future of the story, including just getting me to keep writing, so please don't stop!


	7. sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when you're just trying to watch movies with your boyfriend's best friend and FEELINGS act like they got invited too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay HAHA BOY THIS GOT SO MUCH LONGER THAN I EXPECTED... anyway life got in the way again but hopefully this makes up for it. i'd like to have a double update next week but i'll be happy if i just get one chapter up tbh

It's a text message from an unknown number that interrupts your day. Not that you were doing much of anything; it's one of those days where you take a break from all humans, even the ones you love. In person, anyway, since you're texting Rhodey about everything and nothing, while you're texting Steve about what you'll name all your space dogs when you buy your future home on the moon. 

_ok so the movie was actually good_ is all the text says, with no other clarification, no context. You should probably just delete it. 

**which movie?** you text back instead, because you can never resist a rabbit hole when you see one. You should have asked who they were, is what your father would have said; your mother would tell you to not even response. Your mother also called you a willful child. 

_city of lost children_

You chew your knuckle, staring at your screen. When's the last time you mentioned—oh. 

**is this bucky???** you reply, because you remember talking movies at the dinner table like three days ago over Bucky's magnificent mac and cheese, and admitting that one of your enduring favorites was a weird French movie from the 90s, despite how white it is. Young Ron Perlman speaking French was reason enough to give it at least a watch, you remember saying. Of course, it could be Natasha, too, but you can't think of a single reason she'd message you. 

Double of course, you can't really think of why Bucky would text you, either. One apology and one good dinner doesn't suddenly make you movie buddies. 

_yeh i watched it yesterday and it was weird but real enjoyable_

**how did you get my number...**

_the same way i got your add_  
_got it outa steves phone_

**and you did this just to text me about a movie?**

There's no immediate reply, and you screenshot the conversation to send to Steve with a whole bunch of question marks and **is he trying to be friends? ??** You send the screenshot to Rhodey, too. Rhodey says to shame him for the entertainment value. Steve says he's not sure what Bucky's doing but he's sorry on Bucky's behalf anyway. 

_i mean. you talked abt it and it sounded interesting so i watched it and it was good_  
_so yeah i guess i did_  
_you were right about ron perlman_  
_he looks like kuwabara also_  
_that's something you didnt mention over diner_  
_*dinner_

**is kuwabara a dragon ball character**  
**i feel like i should know this it sounds familiar**  
**i'm old**

You're lying, in fact, but you're not ready to reveal your past as a nerd. Even calling it your past might be another lie.

_curious minds want to know how old_  
_kuwabara is from yu yu hakusho how can you be too old to know this_  
_yyh is from the early mid 90s_

Is Bucky a nerd? Are you really having this conversation? It almost feels like a setup, but Bucky is still typing, and it really does seem earnest. 

_seriously steve never told me how old you were_  
_do you like this movie now because you're ron perlmans age in the movie_  
_are your elder years secretly on the horizon_  
_are you feeling like that scene where miette is dancing with kronk_  
_are you miette, sam_  
_maybe we are we all miette_

The scene he's referencing is a dream sequence where the little girl character, Miette, dances with Krank, an old man, and she rapidly grows older while Kronk shrinks into a bawling baby. You snort. 

**i am definitely krank because you will never catch me aging**  
**also its good to know my man is loyal**  
**what makes you think i would divulge my age to you anyway**  
**what's that about a gentleman never asking and a lady never telling**

_i mean youve met me im no gentleman_  
_unless theres a new definition for gentleman i wasnt aware of_  
_is filthy slob the new gentleman_  
_this is a new age and im ready for it_

**no definitely not you are not and will never be a gentleman**  
**a gentleman never throws a charger**

_im. honestly so sorry about that still_  
_no joking i really am_  
_meet me in prospect in half an hour to kick my ass_

**bucky. i'm joking**  
**what, too soon?**

That's where you lift your face from your phone, staring into the middle distance. Yes, you _are_ joking around with Bucky. 

_oh_  
_no i knew that i just wanted to check that you knew_  
_anyway i was looking at imdb for jeunet and caro and like_  
_i really didnt know they did anything besides amelie_  
_i didnt even know it was them doing amelie_  
_should i watch delicatessen_

It still definitely feels weird, having this conversation. You made nice with Bucky, sure, but you're still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to regress, for him to—fuck, you don't know, tell you to stay away from Steve or he'll beat you with a prosthetic arm he's been saving just for such an occasion. 

But you have a real discussion of how Delicatessen is a less refined work than City of Lost Children, but still fun to watch. How Jeunet and Caro will probably keep casting Dominique Pinon even after he dies. 

And then it keeps going, branching into unrelated topics. Languages you both know, because neither of you know French. You know a little Spanish from your high school friends, and you can buy from the churro lady at Atlantic in Spanish. Bucky knows some helpful phrases in Romanian and can understand some of it, although the only explanation he'll give is his "time away." You complain about your jobs. His manager hates him, calls him nicknames he doesn't use because he once said he didn't like that, leaves him the grossest tasks at every opportunity. You had to take up doing nude modeling at Pratt again for spare cash between what you deem legit modeling gigs, and you really don't hold a lot of love for a bunch of barely-adults staring at your naked body. No, not even for money, but sometimes you have to take what you can get. 

You text him that your old man hands are getting tired. You wonder what's going through his head when he suggests switching to a call. 

Which is funny, considering you barely know what's going through yours when you say yes. 

By the time you get off the phone, the call has lasted just over an hour, which is staggering. It's safe to say you still don't know as much about Bucky as Steve does, but honestly, it feels like you're halfway there. Surreal. 

You text Steve about it, but mostly just promises to tell him all about it tomorrow, on his day off, when Steve's invited you over because he wants to cook you dinner. You teased him when he suggested it, asking him if Bucky's cooking chops had him nervous. 

Steve answers the door wearing nothing but his shorts and an apron, a wave of heat following him out of the apartment. You're still waiting for _your_ landlord to turn on the heat, because he seems to think it should be a Thanksgiving Day miracle to not shiver around your home in socks and a Snuggie. (Yes, you own a Snuggie.) He grins when he looks at you, and sweeps an arm out to pull you in by your waist. 

"Little chilly to keep wearing those crop tops, Sam," Steve murmurs as he locks the door, although he doesn't let go of your waist. 

"I'm wearing a jacket over it, aren't I?" you say, even as you shrug it off. 

"Now you're not," he says, low and distracted while he pushes his hands under your top. He pins you against the wall of the entryway, sucking at your neck as his hips grind against you. It's easy to let him, honestly, because by now he knows too well how to get you hot in an instant—but you suspect if you keep this up, something's gonna burn, and best case scenario you'll be eating charred dinner. Worst case, you'll be dead, all because Steve is slipping insistent fingers into the waistband of your jeans. 

"Steve, are you gonna burn this building down?" you say, pushing insistently at his shoulders. He laughs into your shoulder as he lets go of you, and nods. 

"I might. I guess I shouldn't, huh?" Steve stands straight, running a hand through his hair. "Save it for later and all." He's trying to blink the bedroom out of his eyes, as much as you're willing your half-boner to die. "Sorry." 

You snort. "Don't be sorry for _that_ , just get back in the kitchen." 

"And do what?" Steve asks as he jogs back into the apartment, picking at his apron. 

"Cook me my dinner, white husband," you say, following at a more leisurely pace. 

"Husband, huh?" He flashes you a smirk before disappearing into the kitchen. "Was I there for that?" 

"Steven Grant Wilson, you don't remember our vows?" You slap a hand to your chest, feigning shock. "I worked so hard on mine." 

"Must've been drunk," Steve's voice says from inside the kitchen, amid the sound of pot lids clattering and wooden spoons stirring. "Especially if I took your name." 

"Steve Wilson is a great name." You swing into the kitchen at last. "Sam Rogers? That's some weird shit." 

"We'll hyphenate, then." Chicken thighs are simmering in one big pan, and pasta boils next to it. 

"We'll see about that." You gesture at the stove. "Two burners, huh? Feeling ambitious tonight?" 

"Hey, I can cook a decent meal," Steve huffs, waving you away. "Just because I'm not Iron Chef Bucky doesn't mean I can't feed my man." 

That gets another snort out of you. "Some bottomless pit out there is gonna be real glad when they make an honest man out of Bucky Barnes." 

Steve clears his throat. "Speaking of Buck—so what was this thing yesterday?" 

"What? Oh." You sit on a paint-splattered metal step stool in the corner, leaning against the pantry door. "He just started texting me. Like we were friends or something." 

Steve pauses mid-stir, then takes his wooden spoon out of the pasta. "Are... _Are_ you friends?" 

"No," you say, instant. Then, "I don't know. I don't think so? He got my anxiety up the way no one and nothing has in a long time, to the point I didn't even wanna come over here anymore." 

"I'm still really sorry about that, Sam." 

"No, no," you say, waving. "It's done, it's over. It's just... It's funny, I guess, how he jumped ahead like that. I guess it means he's trying." You tell Steve just how Bucky "jumped ahead"; admitting to stealing your number, having sincere movie opinions, and how the conversation just kept going so long Bucky suggested switching to a call. How you felt like you were losing your mind when you agreed to it, and yet—you don't really regret it. 

Steve chuckles, shaking his head as he uses tongs to lift cooked chicken thighs onto a serving platter, which he sets aside with a pot lid over them. "That actually sounds a lot like how Bucky used to be, before the accident." He drains the pasta, and pulls out a mixing bowl in one of the bottom cabinets. "It's actually kind of funny, if you think about it. Shows he's trying to be comfortable with you." 

"Comfortable?" You can't help but arch a single brow, which Steve calls your _people's eyebrow_. "We've been made up for less than two weeks. There's no comfortable." 

"I'm just saying." Steve empties a small jar of pesto into the mixing bowl of pasta, then scrapes chopped walnuts into it from his cutting board. "You know how a dog owner will be like, oh, sorry he's sniffing your crotch, that just means he likes you now? I guess it's like that." 

"Don't tell me Bucky's gonna be sniffing my crotch." You hop off the stool while Steve tosses the pasta, pulling plates from the cabinet. 

"Well, I make no promises—" Steve laughs as you fix him with a deadpan stare, lifting the lid off the chicken thighs. "No, no. But I think he's trying to reach out to you, honestly." 

You pile your plate with a couple of thighs and a heaping serving of pasta, and take both your plate and Steve's out to the minuscule dinner table that sits in an awkward space of the kitchenmost side of the living room. Clinking glass means Steve is getting wine, and as you set the plates down, your phone buzzes. 

_ok delicatessen is super weird but also you were right on every count_

Well, of course you're right, you've had supreme movie opinions ever since you took that one film history elective in high school. You smirk as you reply with as much. Steve comes out with the wine bottle and glasses, and you add that you'll talk about this later. 

"Texting your other boyfriend?" Steve teases as he puts the wine down, planting a kiss on your cheek. 

"Nah, just your local slob man," you say, tossing your phone onto the couch. "Let's eat, huh?" 

"Bone appetite," Steve agrees with a smile, and you don't have the heart to correct him. 

As it turns out, Steve really is just an average cook. His seasoning leaves something to be desired, although at least the chicken isn't dried out. The store-bought pesto saves the pasta, but really everything could use more garlic. Still, he did try, just for you. Your mother always did say the path to your heart lay directly in your stomach, and apparently all you need is for someone to try and fill it, so long as the attempt is earnest. 

"Sorry," Steve says, leaning his head onto the heel of his palm with a bashful little smile. "I know it's not like—" 

"Hey." You reach over the table and take Steve's hand. "You still made food for me, which is more than any of these other dudes out here are doing. It's not bad." 

Steve laughs, his blush harder to find in the dying sunlight that fills the room. He gets up, letting your hand slip away, and fiddles in the corner by the TV for a moment. When he steps away, his phone is attached to a small speaker, and the first drumbeats of Ella Fitzgerald's _Night and Day_ is thrumming out from it. 

He holds out a gentlemanly hand as her voice comes in, the song still quiet, and as the lyrics crescendo, you stand and take your place opposite him, smiling wide. The trumpets drop in as the song takes off— _Night and day, you are the one..._ and Steve leads you right into a spin. 

It's the song from your first swing dance lesson with Steve, back when he was wooing you. Before you knew just how good he really was. You thought it was a weird choice back then—was it really a swing dance kind of a song? But Steve leads you through it with gusto, then and now, and now, cheesy as it is to say, it's _your song_. He makes it sensual, here in the half-dark of a Brooklyn apartment, and your heart thumps when he dips you to the beat of the trumpets double-blasting. 

You look up at Steve as he leads you, feet more nimble than any other moment in his life, and you're struck by emotion. You realize, even only knowing him less than six months, how infatuated you are with this man. 

And this is what you always worried about. Not even just the worry that you'd never find love again, because that's been around even since before you put Riley's memory to rest. But you've always feared that it would feel—you don't know, cheap? Disrespectful? An insult to the man who was your whole world, before that world was ended. 

There's nothing tawdry about your feelings for Steve. And when you think about how you're well on your way to being _in love_ with him, you finally see what Rhodey and everyone else meant when they said Riley would have wanted this for you. Riley would never begrudge you happiness, and when you look into Steve's eyes, when he mouths along to the lyrics to tell you that it's _only you, beneath the moon, and under the sun,_ , your heart swells with that happiness. 

Steve leads you, as the song fades out, into his room. The chicken is half-finished, the big bowl of pasta growing cold, but at least now when Steve pushes your shirt off to kiss your skin, nothing's gonna burn down. You can enjoy it. 

And god, you do. 

It's a couple days later when you're on your way to Sheepshead Bay again, mulling over how glad you are to see Steve again, as if you just started dating all over again. But when the train leaves Prospect and you finally get service again, you get a text from Steve. 

_Hey babe, sorry, a coworker had a family emergency_  
_I have to pull a double tonight and stay really late_  
_I'm really sorry :( I hope you're not too far from home_

You put your phone against your forehead, sighing. Of course he'd pull a double for someone else's emergency. Steve isn't just a saint, he's a martyr. If he ever put himself first he'd probably guilt himself into an aneurysm. 

**well i'll just stop off at your place to drop off all these flowers and chocolates i brought i guess**  
**since my man is cheating on me with gym equipment**  
**really tho just to pee**

_I really am sorry about this, there's just no one else available and it's a death in the family_  
_I can't leave everyone high and dry, you know?_

**yeah of course i know. saint steve lol**  
**dont worry about it, i'll live**  
**who knows, maybe this is how i finally bond with bucky**

_I can only hope_  
_Thanks for being understanding_  
_I wish I was with you instead_

Which is one of those kinds of things that makes you goofy-smile at your phone on the train, and you press your phone to your chest. 

You chug the rest of the way out to Steve's place, ring the doorbell and hope Bucky's home. (Still weird to even think that phrase.) Steve has been talking about getting you keys, but it just hasn't happened yet. 

Bucky pulls the door open and leaves it like that as he walks away. "Steve's not home yet," he says, leaving you to the task of locking the door. 

"Steve's not gonna be home for a while," you say, turning the latch. "Don't you check your phone?" 

Bucky stops in the middle of the living room, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his sweats. "Oh." Then he looks at you. "How come you still came over then?" 

"I was already on the train." You shrug your bag and jacket off, toss them in the corner. "And I gotta pee, so." You excuse yourself. 

When you come out of the bathroom, you're trying to psyche yourself up to get back on the train to make the arduous multi-train journey back to Bed-Stuy. When you pluck at your jacket, though, Bucky clears his throat. 

"You don't have to go right away, you know." He's a little red, and he doesn't quite look at you. "I know it's a hike back to your place." 

"Well, yeah, but the ride's gonna be the same drag whether I leave now or in a million years," you say, putting one arm through a jacket sleeve. "May as well get going." 

Bucky shrugs, glancing at the ceiling. "You could watch a movie. It's boring by myself." 

You stand there, wearing half your jacket, and stare at Bucky. To text you unexpectedly is one thing. To ask you to _stay_ , with just _him_ , because he apparently wants you there? For something that borders on "Netflix and chill"? This is something else entirely, even if movies have somehow become your "thing" between you. 

You chew your bottom lip while Bucky looks increasingly sweaty. "What're you watching?" you say, and he lets out this big puff of air, like he wasn't gonna breathe until you replied. 

"How to Train Your Dragon," he says, and—he's smiling. Like really, truly smiling. Genuine. You know you saw him smile at the dinner party, but when it's just you and him there's a different quality to it. You don't know how to parse how it makes you feel, so you just file it under _kind of awkward_. 

"I've never actually seen that movie," you say, letting your jacket fall back to the floor. "Is that a good one?"

"Are you kidding? It's a fucking masterpiece," Bucky says, gesturing violently at the couch. "Sit down. I'm making popcorn." 

What Bucky brings out is a bowl of popcorn so massive it looks like a comedy prop, and you wonder for a moment if it is, given Bucky's side gig. You don't actually know how two people are supposed to finish it, until Bucky sets it in the dip in the center of the couch and shovels a huge handful of popcorn into his mouth, cheeks bulging ungraciously. He fishes for the remote between the couch cushions, still chewing, and that's when you notice he's wearing socks with little weed leaves on them. You can't help but laugh. 

It makes sense, you have to admit, that a guy with one arm would like a movie about a boy who ends up with one foot, and his dragon with a prosthetic tail fin. When Bucky doesn't have a mouthful of popcorn, he fills the spaces of the movie with trivia about the making of the movie, or how cool something's about to be. He only goes absolutely quiet when the movie seems to require it, like Hiccup releasing Toothless after the first time finding him, or when Hiccup is presumed dead. That's when he rests against the back of the couch completely, wide blue eyes shining with the light of the TV screen. It's kind of tender. 

This is a Bucky you've never known. One that's soft, and thoughtful, and earnest. You think if someone saw him like this, happy and relaxed, that they could love him. 

It's only when the credits roll that you realize just how comfortable you both have gotten, Bucky's weed-socked feet wedged between your thigh and the couch. He retracts his legs as soon as you notice, and rather than say anything about it he just grabs the surprisingly empty popcorn bowl and takes it into the kitchen. 

You realize just how late it's gotten, too, because even a children's movie takes time. You text Steve to complain about as much, and besides expressing surprise that you're still there with Bucky, he says you should just crash for the night. After you steal pajamas from Steve's dresser, you end up shooting the shit and watching episodes of Key & Peele with Bucky until Steve gets home. Steve looks both surprised and thrilled to see the two of you curled up in the corners of the couch together. He kisses your cheek, then he musses Bucky's hair with two hands until it's all in his face. Bucky says Steve can't bully a one-armed man. Steve says he's heard that one before, and shoves Bucky back by the face. 

Steve is too tired for anything but sleep when he takes you to bed, but he whispers in your ear that he's so happy to see you getting along with Bucky. He asks you if you're still sure you're not turning into friends, and you tell him you'll have to get back to him on that one. 

Bucky seems to have a much more straightforward idea of what you are, because a couple days later, he texts you again. 

_are you coming over today_

**what?**

_i got off early from work because it was slow and my boss hates me_  
_steve is still in the salt mines and nat is out with sharon_  
_im bored as hell sam_

**ok so, watch a movie or something?**

_sure you can pick the movie this time_

You have to put your phone down for a second. Either he has poor reading comprehension, or he intentionally skipped over your obvious suggestion that he entertain himself. 

**i'm still at pratt** you lie, because you're not at Pratt, you're sitting on a bench outside a grocery store in the next neighborhood over, eating a sandwich and wondering when the air started getting so chilly. No more crop tops for you for a while. 

_so come over if youre done_

He's insistent, you'll give him that much. Hell, you'll give him the fact that he's not bad company, either. 

**fine. you ever seen akira?**

_not since i was like 13_

**get ready to have your mind blown, bitch**

After which you have to put your phone down again, because that was more familiar than you meant to be, but it was like your fingers slipped. Did you catch yourself smiling at your screen a little? There's no way. 

You finish your sandwich and wipe your fingers, and tuck your phone into your pocket even though you felt that little _buzz buzz_ of Bucky's reply. You're still too mad at yourself for that last text to want to see what he had to say to being called _bitch_. 

When Bucky opens the door, dressed in what looks like fully clean clothes, he grins and looks you up and down. "Look at you with your stomach covered up." 

"It's chilly out," you retort as you walk past him. His hair looks like he actually washed and brushed it, half of it pulled back into a pathetic curl of a ponytail. "Look at you, actually clean for once." 

"I gussied up just for you," he says as he locks the door. "I even used conditioner. You wanna feel?" Bucky bows his head, grinning. 

"I'll take your word for it," you snort, throwing your bag in the corner. Bucky stays like that for a beat too long, then clears his throat as he straightens, his whole face going some shade of tomato. 

"So anyway," Bucky says—and now he won't look at you, "I got bored waiting for you and fixed snacks." He gestures at the coffee table while you're busy taking off your sneakers, and when you finally look, your eyebrows almost go flying off your face. 

"No the fuck you did _not_ make snacks, you made a meal," you laugh as you head for the couch. "You Iron Chef motherfucker!" 

And he did, laid out on plates and everything. Two grilled cheese sandwiches, the bread dark without a single speck of char, sliced diagonally with the white cheese dripping from their cut edges. There's a bottle of beer by each plate, sweating rings onto the Degas ballerina coasters you got for Steve, and a bottle opener sitting by the remote. This is actually the neatest you've seen the coffee table in a while; the whole living room, in fact, looks like Bucky didn't get "bored waiting for you", and in fact spent the time you were on the train neatening the place up. 

"It's just snacks," Bucky mutters, as if that's going to change your mind. He grabs the remote and takes his seat to get the movie started while you take a bite right out of the center of a sandwich half, and god _damn_ but it's delicious. There must have been so much butter in the pan, and you have to wonder how Steve and Bucky have lived together so long without Steve picking up any of Bucky's seasoning skills. 

"My mama would call this husband hunting food," you say with a chuckle as you swallow that first bite. "If you're trying to court me, Bucky, the bad news is Steve got to me first." 

As soon as the words escape your lips, you know it was an awkward thing to say. Bucky laughs nervously without looking at you, and starts the movie. 

Luckily, the awkwardness wears off within a scene or two, and Bucky is back to what you're finding is his usual garrulous self of a movie-watcher. He talks to the characters, even through a mouthful of potato chips. And you were the one to suggest the movie, but you admit you get tense when Tetsuo loses control over his body, unthinkingly grabbing at Bucky's shirt when shit gets a little too real. 

Bucky doesn't mention it after the movie, thankfully. 

"It's funny, you know," you say, as the credits roll and you grab at potato chip crumbs in the bottom of the bowl. "I think I was less scared of this movie when I watched it as a kid. First Japanese anything I ever watched." 

"Don't tell me you were that kid who was big into anime," Bucky snickers. You're sitting straight on the couch, but he always sits with his knees up and facing your end of the couch. 

You laugh too. "Oh, I sure was. I was that kid who liked anime _and_ Marvin Gaye, and in the early mid 90s neither of those were things other kids really understood, you know? No Toonami in 1994." 

"You still like Marvin?" Bucky sweeps up the last of the crumbs to cram them all in his mouth at once, and wipes his hand on his once-clean sweats. It shouldn't be endearing. 

"Do I look like I developed bad taste in the past two decades and change? Please. Marvin Gaye is an eternal classic," you snort. "You gonna finish the chips and not replenish, man?" 

"Look who's being a demanding guest," Bucky says, but he's chuckling as he gets up with the bowl. From the kitchen he continues, "I actually secretly really like him too." 

"Secretly? Why secretly?" You rise to follow him into the kitchen, and find Bucky pressing a family size bag of Lays between his arm and his side, bereft of the two hands usually necessary to the task of opening a bag of chips. You start to reach for the bag, automatically wanting to help, but then the top of the bag pops open with a bang. No help necessary. 

"I dunno. I guess because it was something I got into when I was..." Bucky chews his lip as he dumps the chips out into the same bowl as before. "You know. Away." 

"You mean when you ran away to just a different part of the city and Steve couldn't find you for almost a year." 

Bucky pauses, then sighs as he drops the empty bag into the trash. "Yeah, that. I got two jobs just to stay busy, and one of them was being one of those black car cabbies that Uber's putting out of business." He hands the bowl to you, and it takes you a moment to accept it. "My cab had a broken antenna and exactly one cassette tape in the glove compartment that still worked." 

A cab driver. He'd just finished surviving a car crash, and the man went to go work as a _cab driver._ "You really got a job driving after—?" 

Bucky laughs a little. "You think Steve would think to look for someone in a car?" He starts walking back to the living room, which prompts you to do the same to get out of his way. "I had some nightmares, you know, but whatever. Maybe it helped me get over my shit faster." 

This all feels so much more personal than you signed up for, but you can't stop yourself from continuing it. "What album was it? The cassette, I mean." 

"It was, uh, _What's Going On_. I was too lazy to get any other cassettes for a while, so for that while, it's all I listened to in the car." He plops down on the couch again while you set the bowl of chips down. "I ended up looking up more information on him. I really didn't know anything about him besides like, thinking of him as a sex songs singer." 

"He was political," you agree, taking your seat. 

"He was tragic," Bucky says, and you can tell he's not trying to correct you. He wraps his arm around his knees, leans back against the arm of the couch and stares nowhere. "There were some nights, though, you know, where I had the car parked at like three in the morning, and I—" Bucky swallows. "I would listen to him, and it would remind me to stay alive. Ironic, I guess." 

You learned about Marvin Gaye's death later in life, too, which meant that his music was never tragic for you. Marvin Gaye was Saturday mornings with your sister, watching cartoons with bowls of sugary cereal your mother only allowed you to eat on the weekends. He was your parents dancing in the kitchen, the notes of _Wholy Holy_ leaking into the sound effects of the TV with the way your father made your mother giggle. He was your father, still alive, and he was your mother, so full of joy, and he was your parents, still so in love with each other even after two children. He was you after your father's funeral, looking for familiarity and solace in a world torn in two, and finding it in the beat of _Inner City Blues_. 

"Good it did," is all you say, because there's not much else you can. But Bucky turns his face your way, eyes crinkling with the soft smile that spreads across his face, and your heart thumps a little too hard. You think about your earlier joke, and you wonder—if you'd met Bucky first, would things be different? 

You wonder if Bucky would have been right for you, too, just a different kind of right from Steve. 

Guilt slices through you at the thought. You already know Steve is so good to you, so good _for_ you. You know you're happy with him. You don't need these new questions. 

What else you know is that you should leave, and get away from Bucky and these feelings, but Steve will be home soon, and you'd never be able to explain to him why you bailed less than an hour before he was due back. 

So instead you stay, let the conversation turn back to what you were like in high school, a pathetic nerd who didn't watch MTV or break the rules or do anything expected of a standard issue 90s teenager. Bucky gets some good laughs in, until you do some revenge extensive research of your own and find ancient photos of a teenage Bucky dressed as a raver in the year 2002. It's all Steve's fault that the photo still survives, of course, so when Steve gets home, Bucky makes sure he's present when he digs up a photo of Steve in poorly applied eyeliner and cut-up black clothes in his own teenage attempt at counterculture. Steve is way less phased than Bucky wants him to be, and just laughs at his old self. 

And when it's just you and Steve, you bury yourself in your honest affection for him, let the truth of how much he means to you wash away all the guilt and uncertainty. It works. 

Two days later, looking at your closet and sighing at the state of your cold weather wardrobe, you text Steve and ask him to come shopping with you. 

_Do you really need more clothes?_

**i'm a fashion blogger steve**  
**do i ask you if you need more muscles**  
**this is what my ad money pays for**

_I thought the ad money paid the rent_

**no, that's the donation money and art school money you're thinking of**

_Don't you get, I dunno, free clothes sent to you?_

**i'm no shill, i gotta make my own choices for the people's viewing**  
**but also yes**  
**what's your point**

_Well either way I can't go, sorry :( They pulled me into OT at work because they fired someone yesterday and then just sprung this on me this morning_

**that's some bullshit baby**

_Yeah. The interview for that other gym is next week._  
_They pay better, too, so if I get the job then it can be Steve money paying for your wardrobe_

**i would say i'm my own man but i'm too broke to have pride**  
**i'm ready for that sugar, daddy**  
**no more h &m for this bitch**  
**commes des garcons here i come**

_I don't know what that is but it sounds expensive_  
_Everything French sounds expensive_

**i mean asos is cool too**

_Anyway, if it works out I'm gonna try and bring Sharon with me, and then Nat can have fancier clothes, too, or something_  
_I'm really sorry though I really do wish I could go with you_  
_I don't want to be here at all_  
_It's one thing to volunteer to cover for people_  
_It's something else entirely when you get picked to be the martyr_

Steve's being a little dramatic calling himself a martyr, but you wish he could bail, too. You tell him you understand, then fold your hands across your stomach and twirl slowly in your computer chair to better contemplate the idea of shopping alone. 

You pick up your phone again, and make a bad decision. 

**you free today or what barney**

You haven't forgotten what you felt the other night. But you maintain that you can't just suddenly act like Bucky doesn't exist, even though not inviting him to go out shopping in lieu of your boyfriend doesn't really fall under that. It'd be too suspicious, which is why you've decided the best course of action is to make better friends with Bucky. Yeah. 

_howd you guess_  
_why are you bored_  
_little early for movies_

**i thought today we could, you know, go outside**  
**at the same time, in the same place**  
**just a wild idea i had**

_outside_  
_ive never heard of that_  
_what is it_

**outside is this magical place where the most beautiful model you know gets all his clothes**

_you wanna go shopping_  
_????_  
_with me?? ??? ?_

**look i just need a pair of eyes and everyone else i know is a real working adult or something that has no time in the middle of a weekday to brave the crowds of soho**  
**i just want company while i abuse my third credit card**

_i dont know man_  
_im not gonna be any help_  
_have you seen me_

**listen, can you come or not?**

There's a pause, and you use the time waiting to text Rhodey about the ideas for today starting to bubble up in your brain. Rhodey says you're asking for trouble, and then Bucky's response pops up at the top of your screen. 

_yeah alright i guess i got nothin better to do_  
_where and when do you wanna meet_

Bucky meets you at the Starbucks on Broadway looking mostly like his usual self, although at least his hair looks clean (if unbrushed), and his clothes are free of stains, if shabby and easily used as pajamas. With the weather turned chilly, he's got on a sweater, and it's some pilly polyester faux Fair Isle nightmare with a hole in one armpit. Jesus Christ. You smile through the pain of his outfit, and rise when you see him. 

"I still really don't know what you think I'm gonna add to your day," Bucky says as you approach him. "I haven't paid attention to fashion since 2010 and even I know fashion's changed a lot since then. I'm just a regular ol' slob now." 

"I mean..." You try not to look at the sweater, or—oh, god—the honest-to-god hiking boots you've just now spotted on his feet, a sharp contrast to your slim brown leather lace-ups. "I'm not gonna argue with that. But like I said, I just wanna hang out." 

Bucky shrugs. "Alright then, have fun hanging out with dead weight. I bet I'm gonna like everything you hate and vice versa." 

SoHo is easy for you when you're on your own, or with someone else with experience. With Bucky, who self-admittedly hasn't gone into Manhattan in two years (not counting his recent escapade), it's like being with a huge scared toddler. Bucky doesn't get lost in the crowd, because he's still a New Yorker, but he walks so close he almost steps on your heels, and when you turn toward stores he flails and jogs after you. 

Shopping for yourself remains your primary motivation, but your ulterior one is to get Bucky looking sharp. This is your personal olive branch, a way of opening yourself to Bucky as much as sharing movies and embarrassing stories. You know the power of appearance, so it makes sense to you that what Bucky needs is to stop looking like depression incarnate. So that, you know, the next time Steve meets someone new, Bucky won't go into a spiral of self-loathing. Something like that, anyway. You also just want to see what he looks like in real pants. 

The issue you didn't anticipate, though, is Bucky's body. You know Bucky's big—nobody could miss him, even at a distance. But you figured he was in the standard range of big, because there are larger sizes than yours on the rack when you shop, and you're always one of the biggest models in the room during casting calls. The truth turns out to be that Bucky is straight up fat, and not even the largest sizes in any menswear section of any store fit him. After the second store you don't even try to get him in the fitting room anymore, and after the third store you stop holding clothes up to his body. 

"I don't know why you're bothering with trying to find clothes for me," Bucky says as you exit another store with another bag of clothes. You're trying to not splurge in every shop, so you have a collection of small plastic bags hanging from one fist. "I get stretchy shit from the Target at Atlantic and call it a day. None of this drama." 

"Because you can do better," you say, consolidating a couple bags as you stand by the curb. "But I guess I was hoping too much for SoHo, of all places, to—" You look at him, unsure of how to end that sentence. 

"To what, have clothes in size fatass? Of course not. I came because you asked me to, not because I thought I was gonna get a GQ makeover." 

"I thought you said you came because you had nothing better to do." 

"Yeah, well—" Bucky rubs a finger under his nose, glancing away as his face reddens. "You turned out pretty fun to hang out with." 

There goes your pesky heart again, a little twist and an extra bump like it thinks your rib cage is a dance floor. "Let's just walk for a little while," you say, gesturing down a side street. 

While you walk Bucky tells you about his lost year again, quiet words about how at first, the change to his body was an unintentional side effect of living a completely different life. But once he noticed it, he committed. Steve would keep looking for an average-slim man with a high coif, and Bucky became a long-haired hulk instead. You still haven't asked him why he hid from Steve in the first place, and just as you think it might be the right time to ask, you hit a busy avenue, and Bucky changes the subject to some weird advertisement on a bus shelter. 

"Okay," you say, after you've walked for some time, "so we agree we're not gonna find clothes for you around here, right?" 

"Right," Bucky agrees, looking instantly suspicious. 

"So," you continue, stopping next to one particular door, "what about this?" 

"This?" Bucky looks at the storefront behind you, squinting. "A barber?" 

"I just wanna see what you look like under all that," you say, which is absolutely true. 

"Nothing exciting, I promise," Bucky snorts. "The same ugly mug as before." 

"What're you, scared or something? You can't handle a little haircut? Do I need to take you to Supercuts or something so they'll give you a balloon afterward?" You fold your arms, smirking as Bucky screws up his face. 

"Scared who? It's just a goddamn barber, Sam." 

"Yeah, so? Get a haircut then." You gesture toward the door with a stiff arm. "I _dare_ you, Barnes." 

"Up the ante, _Wilson_ ," Bucky says. 

"If you get a haircut, I will _pay_ for it. I will even tip whatever nice Russian man attends to that mess on your head." As if to prove it, you pull your wallet out and wave it in Bucky's face. 

"Fine." Bucky gives you a wicked grin that makes you feel like you just got played, and throws the door wide open to step inside. 

The barber Bucky gets doesn't actually speak English, so the guy who seems to be the owner of the place translates between him and you two in rapidfire Russian and accented English. Bucky doesn't actually have any strong desires other than getting you to pay for this whole thing because he thinks it's funny, so you tell them to just give him something short with length on top that's gonna make Bucky look handsome instead of sad. 

On the way back to your apartment—because you need to drop off all these purchases before you go do anything else now, whatever that might be—Bucky keeps patting the top of his new haircut, but it's not the kind of _I can't believe how good this looks_ touching you expected. With his hair short and just a little tousled, and a clean shaven face, Bucky is actually dashing, so long as you don't look at anything he's wearing. Instead he's frowny and fidgety, and you even notice he keeps avoiding his own reflection in the darkened windows of the train car. 

When you get back to your place, you start putting away your new clothes, and Bucky still looks vaguely unhappy. You call for him from your bedroom, and when he stands just inside the doorway, you motion him over to your closet. 

"What now?" Bucky says, shoving his hand in the pocket of his sweats. 

"I just want you to try on one more thing," you say, sticking your hand into the mass of fabric inside your closet. Your hand finds what you're pretty sure you're looking for, and— 

"Why? Why one more thing? Why anything at all?" Bucky asks as you pull out the item in question. Bucky's eyes widen to see it. "A crop top? Really, Sam?" 

"It's oversized," you say, but you hang it on the doorknob behind you, feeling contrite without even knowing why. 

"I'm not you!" Bucky says, grabbing feverishly at his hair. "I'm not some pretty little man who can wear anything and talk to anyone, I'm—" He gestures violently at his body, with extra jabs toward the stump of his left arm. "I'm _this!_ " 

"That doesn't mean—" 

"I'm not who I used to be, either, so whatever transformation you think you're gonna try and get because Steve showed you that stupid missing person flyer, forget it. I'm ugly, inside and out. Might as well accept both those things." Bucky huffs through his nose, glaring at the wall on his right. 

"I didn't mean for today to come off like that," you say, small-voiced while you file the shirt back into your overstuffed closet. "I just—it's how I know how to feel good, when I feel like shit about myself. I wanted to share that with you." 

Bucky blinks hard, but he keeps his eyes trained on the wall. 

"Also, just—" You take a step forward. "I didn't know whatever man you used to be, or think you used to be. The only Bucky I know is this one." Another step. "And even though this Bucky was a huge asshole at first, once I got to know him for real, well," you chuckle, "I found out he was a decent guy." 

"Decent. Yeah, sure," Bucky snorts, but that gets you a glance at least. 

"Not just decent. Funny, and weirdly charming, and a goddamn seasoning wizard. A lot more caring than you wanna admit." You finally get his eye contact, and you hold it. "Steve stayed your friend all this time for a reason, and I'm just finally getting to see them." 

"Steve's just a loyal dummy, is all," Bucky says, but there's no conviction behind it. 

"So," you say, swallowing as blood rushes in your ears, "can you blame me for trying to match the outside to the inside? Can you blame me for trying to get you to see that there's nothing ugly about you?" 

Somehow your hand finds its way to Bucky's cheek, fingertips just touching the back of his hairline where the curls are the smallest and softest, palm cupping his jaw. 

Bucky leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut like he's been waiting for this. Like he's grateful. 

You both freeze, eyelids flying open and wide with panic. 

"I'm," Bucky stammers as you whip your hand back, "I'm—" 

And he bolts out of your bedroom and out of your apartment, clattering with loud thuds down the stairs of the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO.... THAT WAS.... A LOT.... although for my blessed commentariat:  
> a) i'm sorry i haven't been responding as much as before, i was trying to focus on getting the chapter done BUT I'LL BE RESPONDING NOW  
> b) no, i don't do love triangles and there will be no cheating, just to get that bit of speculation out of the way. otherwise speculate to your heart's desire, go wild
> 
> i AM in the home stretch of planning the end of the fic but there's still some mess to clean up in the outline so your speculations still, you know, contribute
> 
> also i now have a fandom sideblog at softsams.tumblr.com so if you wanna bother me and follow for basically the same mcu content as everyone else plus jabs at sebastian stan's so-called manbun (it's not a bun! it's barely a ponytail!) you can do it there


	8. steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a look back with steve, and also tony stank's halloween porty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i just want to say to start that there IS gonna be sex in this chapter that involves steve, and frontal, so if that's something you don't like or otherwise can't handle, maybe skim the middle part of this chapter. it's meant to be positive and affirming but sometimes that doesn't matter so take care of yourselves first
> 
> also god i wanna say thank you guys for hanging in there with my sparse update schedule although at least this week i was only off by a day and still managed to deliver another 8k-ish chapter? so hopefully that helps

_Your mother hands you a bag of frozen peas, and you lean back on the couch, groaning as you press it to your eye. "You can't keep doing this, sweetie," she sighs, planting her hands on her tilted hips._

_"They said they wouldn't hit a girl," you mutter, snuffling blood back into your nose._

_"That's a reason for a suspension?" Your mother rolls her eyes. "No more of this. Besides, what's wrong with not wanting to hit you? You should be so lucky to go through life with people agreeing to never hit you."_

_What you can't tell your mother is that you don't_ feel _like a girl, because that'll lead to a lot of aggressive questions you don't have the energy to put up with. Not with a shiner, anyway._

 _"They were following me to class and yelling stuff at me," you say instead. Stuff like calling you calling you an_ it _because, according to them, you're too ugly to be a girl, but not good enough to be a man. Asking when your tits are finally gonna grow in. How they can't wait for your hair to get long again so they can grab it. You know, the usual stuff nobody tells fourteen year old boys to stop saying._

_"You have to ignore them, honey. Plus now your friend Bucky is in trouble, too." Your helpful mother._

_"I didn't ask him to. I had it." Bucky came barreling in, all lean teenage weight room muscle, and literally kicked one of the boys off you. They ended up bailing thanks to Bucky, sure, despite the three-on-two advantage they had, but of course that's when the dean would show up. Made it look like you and Bucky just liked to beat on classmates for fun, so the bullies got their proverbial noses wiped and you and Bucky got suspended._

_"Had it nothing. You're gonna leave those boys alone, I don't_ care _how bad they get. Tell a teacher if they're getting to you. You can't solve anything with your fists." She takes one of your hands, long and bony and delicate, and laughs a little to herself as she presses a wet rag to the split knuckles. "Especially not these fists."_

 _Of course, it doesn't stop you. You get into another fight after that, except this time it triggers an asthma attack. And this time, instead of Bucky, his friend Natasha comes running in from stage left and breaks a boy's nose, yelling something about how she wants to hear them talk about hitting girls_ now _. She presses your inhaler into your hands, waits for you to stop turning blue before she gets up. That's when she goes from just Bucky's friend to being your friend, too._

 _A year later you try going out wearing two sports bras under a loose shirt, and a knit hat pulled down over your hair. You think of yourself as Steve when you dress like this, which sounds nothing like the name your mother gave you. You ask Bucky one late night to call you Steve, too, and he looks like he wants to laugh but he agrees. It gives you the courage to ask the same of Natasha, to which she gives you a big fat_ whatever _in agreement. You get called sir once in a Barnes & Noble, and it gives you such a fucking thrill. _

_You do this for a month before one of Bucky's stupid friends corners you and tells you you're only doing this because of "that gay Japanese shit you girls are always reading, you're not actually a man, you know that, right?"_

_The next day you wear a regular bra and bootcut jeans and you think about how embarrassed you are to be alive. Bucky gets rid of that particular friend, but it doesn't matter. That guy was probably right._

_For years you try to be the girl you're already supposed to be. You grow your hair out, learn how to apply basic makeup, wear clothes from the women's sections in stores. Not that you can make yourself wear tight clothes, or even dresses, but you_ can _make yourself date men._

 _Well, not_ make _yourself date them, exactly. You like men, a truth you reaffirm every time you reflect on yourself. You just don't like how men like you back._

_As a brand new adult you sleep with a lot of different men, waiting for that magical moment when it'll be a comfortable and enjoyable experience. (Not Bucky—never Bucky. And not just because Bucky seems to prefer men, too.) The men are always attractive, but everything they say and do turns out to be unattractive. They plow into you in one of two or three positions, grunting a bunch of aggressive or degrading words and making ugly noises when they come, and then act like that's about all that needs doing._

_You stop dating for a while and focus on school. You start working out, weight lifting because if you lost weight you'd disappear, and because you want something to do. (That's what you tell yourself.) Bucky graduates two years ahead of you with an associates degree in some communications major you can never remember the name of, and once you graduate, you get an apartment together._

_Bucky and Natasha stopped calling you Steve before the end of high school, but in the safety of your own home and your own adulthood, you ask Bucky to try it again. Just to see._

_It feels good._

_When the binder comes in the mail, you put it in your dresser and it sits there for a month, surrounded by flimsy cheap bras. But when you finally do put it on and slide a shirt over it, you look at the flatness of your chest, and the way your shoulders have filled out even that little bit from your gym routine, and you pile your hair under a hat. You look in the mirror, and a grown up Steve looks back._

_Steve only comes out occasionally at first, like to the corner store, or to the movies, places where you don't have to talk much. Natasha calls you Steve again, too, and it's with her that you practice speaking from the chest, because she's honest about what sounds good and what sounds stupid, unlike Bucky who just tries to be a supportive friend no matter what. Steve starts going more places._

_Bucky loses his arm. Then you lose Bucky._

_Steve doesn't get put on hold, though. You think about it, but Natasha reminds you that you can't drop your entire life over one disaster. Well, she reminds you after she figures it out herself, which in turn comes after a week long bender._

_When you find Bucky, he doesn't recognize you at first. You're Steve all the time now, with all the uncertainty of your past self buried under thick muscle and hormone therapy and a legal name change. You don't tell him this, but it's almost a relief that he's too wrapped up in his own shit to comment much on your transformation—that your transition plays second fiddle to settling Bucky back in Brooklyn._

_So when you meet Sam, you're so confident in your masculinity that it blindsides you completely when those old feelings of insecurity rear up again._

 

If someone had told you a year ago—or even yesterday, just any point in your life really—that you'd be invited to Tony Stark's Halloween bash, you would have laughed before telling that someone to knock it off. But here you are at a lavish party that spans multiple floors in the midtown Stark Tower, dark rooms lit purple and green and orange that make for maximum spilled drinks. 

Sam convinced you to dress as a sailor, although you don't think any real sailor would go out wearing a cropped striped shirt and navy blue shorts so small you don't worry even a little that your packer might shift. Sam himself is a mermaid in a glittering long green skirt that makes his ass wiggle, his chest draped with a shell bra and plastic pearl necklaces that kept tangling in his long pink wig. (The wig got shoved behind a couch ten minutes after arriving at the party, courtesy of Sam's pre-gaming buzz, and Sam claims he'll definitely remember which couch, even if he gets wasted. You whispered goodbye to the wig right after Sam stashed it.) 

"You should meet Rhodey while he's in town and, you know, not unbelievably busy," Sam says as he pulls you through the crowd. There are so many drunk people already, and it's not even ten. You look back and see Bucky already setting himself up in front of a cupcake display, dressed as a pirate with a hook attached directly to his stump. You guess you can leave him to it. 

Rhodey, dressed as a robot, stands with a man and a woman when Sam finally finds him, and it seems like Sam recognizes them, too. "This is Rhodey, my stupid best friend who got himself a whole lot of money," Sam says by way of introduction, grinning as he wraps one arm around Rhodey's shoulder and giving him a brotherly slap on the back. 

"I'm Pepper," says the woman with a smile, wearing a lot of white drapey fabric, pointy elf ears, and a tiara. She holds out her hand and you shake it. "Nobody gets my costume." 

"Because Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings trilogy is behind us, culturally, and nobody knows or cares who Galadriel is except the same nerds who've always cared," says the stubby Santa Claus between Pepper and Rhodey. He looks at you. "I'm the super." 

"This is Tony," Rhodey says, shaking his head. "This is, unfortunately, his party." 

"And I'll cry if I want to, is what I think they say, except I can do so much more than cry," Tony says. He doesn't hold out his hand, but he does hold out his drink. "A toast to the lucky man who got, you know. All of that." He gestures widely at Sam. "And to those abs, too," he adds, pointing his drink at your exposed midsection. You try to be surreptitious about holding your forearm over your stomach. 

"I see you're already drunk," Sam snorts. 

"Tipsy," Tony corrects, unconvincingly. You clink your plastic cup of mystery liquor to his and knock it back, the better to get through this interaction. "Anyway, Sam did me a favor by turning me down." 

"Did I?" Sam arches his brow and takes a sip of his drink, eyeing Tony over the rim of it. He tightens his grip on your hand. 

"We, uh." Rhodey coughs in the direction of his shoulder. "We realized some stuff a little while afterward." 

"Stuff? What stuff?" Sam's eyebrows rise together even higher. "Did you text me about any of this so-called stuff?" 

"I knew what you'd say," Rhodey groans, but Tony laughs and Pepper takes a long pull from her drink to cover her own laughter. 

"I was tearing myself up from having feelings for two people, you know, so when Rhodey said he could set me up on a date with you, I figured that was my way out of that situation. Except, you know." He waves the hand holding his drink, making it slosh onto his knuckles. "You couldn't stand me." 

"True," Sam says. No diplomacy for Tony Stark. "I mean, not like that, anyway." Okay, a little diplomacy. He _is_ the host, after all. 

"So I filled up on liquid honesty, and..." Tony looks for a place to set his drink down, and when he can't immediately find one, he simply tosses the cup behind him, the liquor spilling out in an arc reflecting the purple lighting. Then he takes Rhodey's hand. And Pepper's. "Can we say, with confidence, that I might be the happiest man in New York? Because I think that's a fair statement to make." 

Sam clenches your hand so hard it hurts a little, and you flex back until his grip loosens. 

"I thought it might be weird, at first," Pepper admits, raising the hand holding Tony's and squeezing his. "That I might be jealous, or that Rhodey might, or that we'd be competing for his time." 

"But it didn't work like that," Rhodey continues. "We're all adults here, you know? And Pepper and I are two adults who happen to have deep affection for the same manchild billionaire." 

"You forgot philanthropist and genius," Tony says. "Those are important." 

"Right," Rhodey says, laughing as he presses his lips to the back of Tony's hand. 

"Unbelievable," Sam says with a shake of his head. "I can't decide whether I'm more offended by your life choices or the fact that you told me about none of this. I think my new best friend is gonna be Bucky after this." 

"Bucky who?" Tony says, while Rhodey blows a quick raspberry Sam's way. 

"I think Steve needs more jungle juice," Sam says as he lets go of your hand to take your cup and throw the rest of its contents down his throat. "We'll see y'all later." 

"What was that about?" you ask once you're clear of the trio. 

"What, drinking the rest of your alcohol? I just hit my Tony Stark quota for the night, is all," Sam says, without looking back as he leads you in search of one of the many open bars. 

"Well, yeah, he's annoying," you agree. "But you squeezed my hand so hard I thought you were trying to squeeze it out of existence, or something." 

"When?" 

"When Tony talked about dating two people at the same time." 

Sam stops, pulls you over out of the flow of traffic to a wall. "I don't know. I guess I just—" He glances away from you, rubbing his hands up and down your biceps as he rolls his lower lip between his teeth. "Doesn't that seem greedy to you? Like both people he's dating are getting the short end of the stick? One person only has so much time." 

You press tighter against Sam, ostensibly to let people pass behind you. "People can have more than one close friend without someone getting the short end of the stick." 

"Yeah, but that's friends. That's different." Sam frowns, and you can't help put kiss the crown of his head. 

"Is it all that different?" Sam looks up at you, and you fiddle with his necklaces, letting your knuckles rest against his warm skin. "They looked happy, even if they just so happen to be happy dating an insufferable little man." 

Sam doesn't answer right away, swallowing so hard it makes his jaw flex as he looks down the hall again. "I guess," he says at last, but it comes out slow, like he's not sure he means it yet. 

"Yarr, matey, I'm fucking bored," comes Bucky's voice from behind you, and both you and Sam jump just enough for Bucky to laugh. You turn and shift until you're standing next to Sam so you can face Bucky. 

"You're at the ultimate Halloween party thrown by a man who probably thinks overdrafting is a military term," you say, throwing your arms wide to indicate that party. Sam pulls at your arm when it blocks his field of vision, muttering something about your muscles. "How are you bored?" 

"I don't know, maybe because I'm fifth-wheeling it at a party full of beautiful skinny rich two-armed people who scatter like pigeons whenever I come near them? Also because Nat and Sharon vanished to go, I don't know, do vore LARPing in a closet somewhere." 

"Do what?" Now Bucky and Sam are both laughing at you. "I know what both things are, guys, I just never—I've never heard—" They're laughing too hard to listen to you. "I still don't fucking understand this conception of me as a big blushing virgin! Come on!" 

"I'm sorry," Sam wheezes, holding himself up by clutching at the front of your shirt. 

"This is because you started hanging out with Bucky, isn't it? _You_ of all people know I'm not innocent," you say, putting your hands on your hips in exasperation. "He's a bad influence on you. I can't leave you two alone together anymore." 

Sam tenses somewhere around the end of your words, and stands up straight. He's still smiling, but it's not the easy leftover smile of someone trying not to laugh anymore. "I know you're filthy, baby, don't worry." 

The three of you make a booze-seeking chain to traverse the party, every muffled hall and bass-thumping room packed beyond their limits. Bucky leads the charge, waving his shoulder-hook to the horror of pretty much anyone it touches, and you put Sam in the middle because his skirt keeps him from going too fast. Sam keeps looking at his hand holding Bucky's, but you can't tell from back here what kind of face he's making. 

You find Natasha and Sharon at one of the bar counters, and use that as your opportunity to actually get up close enough to order drinks. Natasha is dressed as a spider, except she skipped the store-bought "sexy spider" costume that undoubtedly exists, and is wearing an elaborate getup with six posable legs and two legs she can control with her arms. Sharon is dressed as a fly wrapped in webbing, with a whole lot of plastic wrap around her body, fly wings sticking out at angles from the back of it. When Nat turns her head to look at you, her domino mask has eight giant googly eyes of various sizes glued to the forehead of it, and you start laughing so hard you have to brace your hands on your knees. 

"This is creepy," Bucky says, poking one of Natasha's spider legs. 

"This is lazy," Natasha retorts, poking his hook with one of those legs. "Sometimes I doubt your commitment to Sparkle Halloween, Bucky." 

"I'm committed to drinking as much of a rich dude's liquor as I can get away with and still be breathing by the end of the night," he says, right as the bartender delivers his Long Island iced tea and Sam's screwdriver. 

"What are you, Marge Simpson?" you ask, pointing at Bucky's drink. Bucky reaches for the screwdriver, though, presumably to hand it back to Sam, who's also reaching for it from just behind Bucky. Bucky turns around and accidentally slams the drink into Sam's chest, sloshing orange juice and vodka onto his necklaces and down his belly. Most of the drink survives, though, and Sam takes the drink through Bucky's spluttering apology. Once he has it, though, Sam scurries to your side, taking a deep sip of his drink like _he's_ the one who embarrassed himself. 

"I'm exactly what I said I am, which is committed to drunkenness," Bucky says once he's picked his dignity back up, flapping his hand by his ear to flip hair that isn't there anymore. "Shit, I'm not used to this haircut yet." 

"I'm not helping you get home," Natasha says, planting one foot on Bucky's ass. "Just to be clear." 

"Well then, me neither," Bucky says, right before taking a deep gulp of his drink. "What is that, just pure vodka? You goddamn Russky!" 

"It's water," Natasha says with a dry voice, before flashing a small smile Sharon's way. Sharon returns the smile even as she takes a sip of her margarita. Then she passes the glass Natasha's way, still holding it while Nat drinks from it. 

You leave the girls at the bar once the bartender comes back with your gin and tonic, because it's not really a viable hangout spot if you're not already sitting at it, and other people waiting to order are pushing up behind you. Sam claims to be too old to dance, but when he finds a dance floor he puts his empty glass on the floor by the wall, hikes his skirt up and goes hog wild. You're actually too intimidated to dance with him, but he says if you don't get on the dance floor he's going to dance with Bucky, "and then everyone's gonna be sad!" 

Sam grinds back against you, three drinks deep if you count pre-game drinks and moving like he's made of water. You don't know where he gets this kind of grace, considering you're an even worse dancer with alcohol in you. Bucky has fucking vanished, of course, but between the agreement you made to stop worrying so much about Bucky and the fact that Sam has turned around to grind on your thigh, you put it out of your mind quick. 

Not ten minutes after Sam gets you to dance with him, you find yourselves stumbling down one of the hallways, kissing and tripping and kissing some more while Sam checks doors. He finds one that's both unlocked and has nothing hanging off the door knob, and you practically fall into the room. 

"Does Tony Stark just have unlimited bedrooms?" you laugh as Sam pushes you back until you sit on the king size bed against the wall of the otherwise small room. 

"I think he just knows what happens at parties," Sam laughs back, low and sultry as he climbs onto your lap, legs spread wide by yours, his skirt bunched up over his waist and hips. 

"What happens at parties, Sam?" you ask, smirking as you slide your hands up his thighs and onto his hips. 

"Mermaids dragging sailors to their doom," Sam says, flicking the white sailor hat right off your head. 

"This is a weird definition of doom," you say, right as Sam rolls his hips against your lower belly and lets you know how hard he is. You take a sharp breath through your nose. 

"Either way you're getting the life force sucked out of you," Sam says into your neck, right before nipping at it. The way he says it makes something twitch downstairs. 

"Did you lock the door?" you ask, and Sam sighs as he pushes himself off you. 

"Let me make this official," he says, and undoes his plastic shell bra. He opens the door just enough to hang the shell bra off the knob, then slams the door shut and turns the cheap lock. "There. Your doom is sealed." 

Sam wriggles out of his skirt and pops off his shoes, leaving him with only the pearls and a thong that can't even contain his entire erection. Then he kicks the thong into the corner, and walks back up to you, slow and confident. 

"I'm always the first one naked," Sam chuckles as he tugs at the bottom of your shirt. You toe off your boat shoes while he helps you pull the shirt off. 

"Then stop getting naked so fast," you reply once your shirt is off, but honestly, you're not complaining. Sam puts one knee by your leg like he means to straddle you again, but you can't help yourself, pressing your lips like a kiss to the tip of his dick. How are you supposed to do anything else when he's put it at mouth level to you? 

Sam whimpers when you get him all the way in the back of your throat, fingers gripping your hair just enough to pull. With Sam, oral is never a chore the way it has been with pretty much any other man you've been with. You dig your fingers into his soft ass, moan around his cock as you press your tongue all around it. 

"Speaking of fast," Sam gasps, pushing gently at your forehead. You let his dick fall free of your mouth, looking up with lips you can feel are swollen, and Sam shivers, smiling down at you with hooded eyes. "You're gonna make me come so quick like that, Steve." 

"Couldn't help myself," you say with what you hope is a rakish grin and not, you know, a goofy smile of the unsexy variety, which is the level you usually operate at. "I like how you sound when I do it." 

"Let's see how you sound, then, when I finally get your damn pants off," Sam says with a little growl, pushing at your shoulders until you fall back. "Come on, get up the damn bed, don't make me do everything." He finally loops the pearl necklaces off, dropping them in a noisy plastic heap on the floor. 

It's weird when anxiety meets inebriation, a swirling confusion that somehow feels worse. Sam's knuckles push against your lower belly as he undoes the handful of flat gold buttons on your shorts, and it electrifies you, but the knowledge that he's going to be met with your packer and nothing more exciting than that makes your head feel tight and nauseous. 

"Sam," you say, holding up a hand, and Sam pauses instantly, swaying as he looks at you. "Wait, I—I don't have—" 

"I already know what you've got downstairs, baby, we've been together for at least a little while," Sam snorts. "Remember all those times where you've been buck-ass naked in front of me? Like, right in front of me? Like on my birthday last month?" 

"No, no, I know, just." You sit up a little, wait for the room to catch up with you. You haven't had quite as much to drink as Sam, but you've had enough to get a decent buzz. "I don't have anything _with me."_ You try to give him a meaningful quirk of your eyebrows, but you're not fully synced to what your face thinks it's doing—not even when you're sober, really. 

Sam sits back on his heels and lets go of your shorts as he processes your words. Then he sighs, rubbing your thigh soothingly. "You know I don't need that, right? I know you got me yelling out your name every time you fuck me but that's just one thing I happen to like. What I like more is being with you." 

You bite your lip. He _would_ say something so sweet and understanding. "I just—don't you ever feel limited? Being with me?" 

Sam crawls over your way, sits sideways next to you, and touches one hand to your jaw. "The only thing that limits me is my old man energy and increasingly creaky bones," he says, huffing a little as he smiles. 

"You don't have creaky bones, Sam," you snort, turning to face him. You're supposed to be having some kind of deep discussion, one that you started in the first place, but you trace your fingers up the underside of his waning erection, and Sam squirms. 

"Are you trying to talk to me about an issue you're having or not, Steve?" he says, a little breathless as he pushes your hand away. "Come on." 

"Sorry," you say, your grin sheepish as you roll your head onto your shoulder. 

"Stop being so damn cute and tell me what the problem is," Sam says, keeping your hand a prisoner on his outer thigh, like he doesn't trust you to behave. 

You smooth your face out by sighing, looking at where Sam's keeping your hand loosely trapped instead of at his face. "It just feels like we always need—fuck, I dunno, accessories? Because of me. So I can't always give you what you want." 

Sam gives you the People's Eyebrow and snorts. "Baby, I'm flattered you're so focused on me, but you've got this all kinds of wrong." He sits up, releasing your hand. "Firstable, okay, I don't need to be nailed to the bed every single time we're near one. Which is funny to mention, actually, because I can think of so many times we had a good time without you fucking me in the ass, but as soon as we're playing an away game you forget all those times, huh?" 

"Did you say firstable?" 

"Don't you try and change the subject, Steve. Okay so secondly," and Sam sits up even more now, sweeping his legs around to sit on his heels, "let me get nihilistic on your ass for a moment and remind you that we're just a couple of bodies existing in the world, so if we get some good feelings by rubbing up on each other in whatever way, does it really matter how it happens?" 

You stare at him. "I've never had someone bring up nihilism in bed before." 

"Yeah? Well I'm an educated bitch, so get used to it," Sam says, though he crosses his arms and scratches his nose like he's embarrassed. "What I'm trying to say is, don't worry about it." 

"I can't help it, I'm anxious." You tug at Sam's arm, and he starts to lie back. "Got a diagnosis for it and everything." 

"Call me Xanax, then," Sam says, curling his body around yours as you both lie flat, dragging his fingers down your stomach to tap at the top of your shorts again. "Can I take these off or nah?" 

"Let me," you say, and you peel yourself away from Sam to get out of bed and stand next to it. Sam calls it a strip show, but the point of it is that you can grab all your bottom layers at once, shove them down in one piece and take your packer with it. It distracts you enough that it takes you stepping out of those layers and standing up straight to remember everything you're showing Sam. 

"You're so damn beautiful," Sam breathes, eyes shining with earnestness. And it's not like he hasn't seen you full frontal before, but you appreciate the sentiment. He knee-walks to the edge of the bed and you bend to kiss him. When you break away he's breathy again, eyes heavy-lidded. "Took you goddamn long enough to get naked," he says with a little laugh, which you return before you kiss him again. 

Sam gets you lying down again, kissing you as you wrap your hand around his dick and pump it slowly, aided by foreskin and precum. His fingers are soft—all that lotion he puts on—as they part your thighs and skim your inner labia, a touch so ghostly it makes you shudder, especially when he stops just shy of your clit and starts again. This is as far as he's ever gone on other nights. 

You think about Sam. You think about your boundaries. You think about Sam, and the way he always respects those boundaries, and you think about how gorgeous he looks right now above you, eyes fluttering as your thumb finds his frenulum, full lips parted just enough to show the gap in his teeth. 

You wet your lips. "I wanna try something," you whisper. 

"Hmm?" Sam looks lost in a fog, and at first he misinterprets you, just leans down to kiss you again. You let him, kiss back because it's nice and it makes you arch your hips into his fingers so they push dangerously close to being inside you. 

"I said I wanna try something," you say again when the kiss ends, spreading your knees a little wider. 

"Anything, baby, anything you want." Sam kisses your neck and your chest. "Tell me." 

"Grind on me?" 

Sam chuckles, throaty and light. "Grind on you how?" 

"Like—" You clear your throat, suddenly wishing you'd had another drink. "You know, that word. What's that word. With the F." 

"That's usually _fuck_ , Steve." 

"No, the other one." 

Sam takes his hand away from you, crosses his arms over your chest and lays his chin on his wrists. "You tryna say frot, Steve? Frotting?" 

"Yeah." You can feel just how much more you're blushing. 

Sam looks like he's truly thinking it over. You're still holding onto his dick, and you can feel it throb with whatever he's imagining. "I think I know what you're thinking of but I need you to confirm it for my ass." 

"Let's just see what you think I mean," you say, because you don't think your heart can take any more discussion of it like this before you die or something. 

Sam laughs, pushes himself back onto his knees and presses a kiss to your chest, then to your mouth. "Alright, alright." He casts around, then says, "You think Tony stocked this room with the essentials?" 

It turns out Tony does, in fact, know what happens at parties, because Sam finds out that the side table is stocked with a fucking bucket of high-grade condoms (Sam comments on the presence of non-latex) and multiple bottles of lube. Sam picks out one that hasn't been opened, makes some comment about Tony's high nastiness levels and another comment about how whatever staff he has in this joint cannot be paid nearly enough to disinfect these rooms, and then he's making his way back to you with the bottle. 

"You want me to wear a condom? Just in case?" Sam asks, and you shake your head. 

"Got a dead end down there. Got everything taken out even before I got my top done." Your grin is weak. "No Maury episodes for us, I promise." 

"Like I'd ever run out on you if something did happen," Sam laughs. He snaps open the bottle of lube, pours out a sloppy line of it down his dick, and lets you spread it because you reach for it. "You wanna, or—?" He holds the bottle out, and you take it from him, squeezing lube into your hand. You didn't used to have to do this, of course, but between the hysterectomy and a steady inflow of testosterone, self-lubrication is totally off the table. Not that Sam is going inside you, you remind yourself. 

And no, Sam isn't going inside you, but when he lines up his dick and pushes into the space between your clit and your opening, when the head of his dick rubs against and over your swollen clit, it almost feels like it. Sam's thrusts are a little clumsy, the product of alcohol and being a habitual bottom, but they're needy and honest, and when you reach down to press down on his dick, make a tighter place for it and put more pressure on your clit, you moan together. 

Of course, there's a part of your brain that's been well-trained by society that wants you to feel bad about this. Not because you're supposed to be a girl, or something—you're long past that. But you're not supposed to like this, the society part of your brain says, because a Real Man wouldn't have a pussy in the first place, so you're supposed to just—ignore that it exists. 

And you've been uncomfortable before, even with Sam, keeping him from actually seeing your full naked front even after making your relationship official. You were uncomfortable with the gay men before Sam, who looked at your vagina like a novelty, whether it excited or frightened them. (Sometimes both.) You hated all the men before that, who looked at it like it belonged to them. 

Sam's dick bumps against your opening, over and over again without going in, but coming close enough, often enough, that the nerves clustered there are singing, making everything feel tight and _wanting_. The society part of your brain calls it vestigial. The part of you that adores Sam calls it _just a couple of bodies existing in the world_ , calls it wanting him in you, wanting to be around him. Wanting that connection. 

"Sam," you murmur against his lips. 

"Yeah, baby," he murmurs back, eyes mostly closed. 

"You can put it in." At first your voice is so small, almost incomprehensible with how much you shake when you say those words. 

Sam pauses, raises his head just enough to really look at you. "I didn't catch that." 

"Only if you want," you say, looking away and pulling your hand away from Sam's dick to curl it over your stomach with the other one. 

Sam touches your chin and turns your face back toward his. "Only if I want what?" 

You swallow, glancing down, then back up at Sam. "To put it in." 

You wait for him to say he doesn't want that. That he's too gay for that, that he wouldn't know what to do because it's too different from what he's used to. You wait for him to suggest something else. 

"Is that what you want?" he asks instead, holding your gaze. 

You nod slowly. 

"I'm warning you right now," Sam says with a tiny laugh, "I'm not much of a top." He kisses you again, then sits up to grab the bottle of lube again. 

When Sam finally pushes inside you, you expect it to hurt, because it so often has. (That, and despite using up literally half a bottle tonight you're still worried it wasn't enough. The last time you tried this, talked into it by a too-eager man, you bled.) Instead it just feels like relief as he buries himself all the way in you, the head of his cock bumping against _something_ that sends a jolt straight to your brain. 

"You good?" Sam asks, in a voice that surprises you with how nervous he sounds. 

"I'm real good," you say, reaching with two arms for his embrace. He falls into it, kissing at your neck and jaw and lips as he thrusts into you. 

After a minute and change, though, you realize what Sam meant about not being much of a top. His thrusts don't have the urgency and strength he says—and you know—yours do, and despite his best attempts he can't hit that magic spot too many times. He sits back up. 

"This isn't working, is it?" he says with a rueful little smile, taking your hands to rub his thumbs over the backs of them, although he doesn't pull out. 

You shrug deeply, because you don't want to tell him he's right. For once it's you trying to be extra-sensitive toward your partner instead of the other way around, but it's less refreshing and more awkward as hell. 

"I think you just need to be on top for this," Sam says, and your throat tightens. So much for not needing—

Sam pulls out to flop down next to you, but he doesn't spread his legs, and instead gestures to his crotch. "On top," he reiterates. "If you wanna keep trying this." 

Oh. 

It feels weirder angling Sam's dick into you, his hands resting on your hips while you work it out. But once he's in, you realize you're in control—something you've never had with any of the other men you've slept with. And once you start riding him, with all the vigor you usually put into fucking Sam, it's a completely different story. 

All the men who looked down at you with grunting, angry faces as they fucked you, all the men who folded their arms behind their head and looked down at you with smug faces as you put too much effort into blowing them, they all melt away. Sam's brows knit upward over barely-closed eyes, his lower lip caught on his teeth until he opens his mouth wider to moan. Sam's arms tangle over his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly, pretty with the sheen of sex sweat on his skin. You end up ramming him into the headboard again, just like the first time you fucked him. And while he yelps and laughs, calling you a son of a bitch while he rubs his head, it reminds you that changing positions doesn't change who you are, or the dynamic you have with this man who cherishes you. 

Sam comes without warning inside you, his cock convulsing, his face and chest hot to the touch as he cries out. It doesn't make you come in turn, the way porn would have people believe, but it's hot in every sense of the word. 

When you roll off him, Sam looks at you, already knows you're not there yet. He asks if he can finish you off. 

Sam eats you out like it's his last meal, lifting your hips clear of the bed with your thighs hooked over his shoulders. His tongue dips inside you, his lips suck at your erect clit, and your legs shake violently until you orgasm, hips bucking into his face as your vision goes white. He comes up only when you're finished, his chin shiny with lube, and it makes you almost wish you'd come to that image, instead. 

You lay together, blissed out, for a solid ten minutes before you remember you came to this party with other people. Sam cleans your oversensitive junk out to the best of his ability and your pain threshold, and once you're dressed again Sam discovers someone stole his shell bra off the door. "I wish I could be surprised, just once," he sighs, before fluffing out his necklaces and heading into the hallway. 

"Where the fuck—" Bucky looks at the pair of you up and down, both of you kind of rumpled despite your best efforts at looking like you didn't sneak off for sex in the middle of a rich man's party. Sam's missing shells don't help. Sam coughs into his fist, says he needs another drink. Bucky rolls his eyes. 

"So I'm guessing I'm the only one not getting laid tonight," Bucky says to you when Sam slips off to find drinks. "I lost Sharon and Nat, too." 

"I mean, that's up to you," you say, because you don't know what else to say to that. 

"Right," he snorts, thumping the wall as he topples against it. Looks like he had plenty of time to drink more alcohol while you were messing around. 

"I'll get us a cab after the drinks Sam brings back," you sigh. 

Sam has to ride shotgun in the cab because he gets carsick easy when he's drunk, which means you sit in the backseat with Bucky, who ends up directly behind Sam. 

"Can you move your seat up?" Bucky slurs, who is the drunkest of all. Whoever sat up front last was a lot taller than Sam, and Bucky's knees are crushed against it. 

"I don't—I don't know how," Sam says, almost as drunk, and then he tries some lever or another and ends up slamming his seat into Bucky's legs by accident. The driver pulls over just to rectify the situation, because he probably doesn't need another stupid drunken fight in his vehicle. 

"You should have just sat behind the driver, Buck," you tell him once you're moving again, but Bucky looks at you like you're speaking Dutch. The rest of the ride Bucky stares at the back of Sam's head with big eyes that you'd interpret as sad if he were sober. Maybe he's just sad about how much his knees hurt. 

The next morning a hungover Sam stays in your bed while a less hungover you gets ready for work at your new gym, a much happier place to work. Bucky is dead to the world but his door is open, which means you know he's home, and which also means you know he fell asleep in his clothes. Sam texts you while you're at work to let you know he borrowed clothes to go home, because toplessness and a skirt on a man in broad daylight won't fly, especially in his neighborhood. He also, eventually, texts you that he fucking forgot his wig and that Stark better either find and return it, or buy him a better one, since he's got the money. 

When you get home, feeling overall a lot better after plenty of water, exercise, and decent food, Bucky is home, even though you could have sworn he had a shift today. You know he's home because there's music blaring from his room, although it's not music you expected coming from him. Is that Marvin Gaye? 

"Bucky?" You rap at his bedroom door with no answer, but you do hear him mumbling along to the music. And you know what, whatever, you've seen Bucky naked before. You know everything about him at this point, maybe even too much. So you open the door. 

Smoke billows out as soon as you do, and Bucky whines as you cough and wave at it. "I've been working on that all day," he croaks, and when you finally clear a path over to him you find him in last night's clothes still, laid out in one of the beanbag chairs he keeps around his room. There's a sandwich baggie of pre-rolled blunts on the floor to his right, which you've gathered before come from Natasha, since Bucky's single hand bars him from a lot of standard methods of partaking. 

"Didn't you have work today?" you ask, still batting at the smoke. "Jesus Christ." 

"Called out," Bucky says, bringing what's left of his current blunt to his lips to take a drag. "Felt like shit. Drank too damn much last night." 

"So you figured this would be better?" 

"I feel better now," he says, smiling up at you with sleepy eyes. 

You sigh, and go back into your room to drag out the box fan from under your bed and set it up by Bucky's door. He's predictably unhappy about this, but too stuck in his bean bag chair to do anything about it. 

"You could have just slept it off like a normal person," you say as you turn down the music and sit on his bed, watching the box fan do its work. 

"What are you, casting moral judgment on a little weed? Pull the stick out of your ass," Bucky mutters. 

"I'm not! I'm just—this seems about as excessive as your drinking last night. No, more," you say. "Like, that was cartoon levels of smoke, Buck. What the fuck." 

"I'm just trying to, you know," Bucky says, voice quieting into a mumble toward the end. 

"No, I don't know." You clap your hands together, your elbows braced on your knees. "That's why I said what the fuck." 

"You know." 

"Bucky." 

"I'm just—I gotta forget some stuff." 

You puff out a big sigh. Not this conversation again. "I told you I'd help you find a therapist, dummy." 

"No, no, not that kind of stuff," he giggles, before taking another puff. "Jesus. Come on. I'm not that big of a mess. Not right now, anyway." 

"Okay, then what?" 

"Steve. C'mere." 

You lurch to your feet, go stand by Bucky with your hands on your hips. "What." 

"No, like, c'mere. There." Bucky points with the blunt at the other beanbag chair. "Siddown." 

"Fine." You plop into the beanbag, this one blue to Bucky's red one. "Now what?" 

Bucky stares at you, and for a moment, you think he's forgotten whatever it was he's supposed to tell you. You think about how you need to start dinner soon, if Bucky's gonna be like this, and drum your fingers on the sides of the beanbag. 

Then his face screws up, and he honest to god starts blubbering. "I'm really sorry, Steve, I'm such a piece of shit, I'm so, so sorry—" 

"Sorry for what? Don't tell me you and Sam are fighting again," you groan, but Bucky shakes his head. 

"No, no, not that. No, Sam's great, Steve. He's so good. He's so great. Fuck, I'm sorry." 

"Spit it out. What're you sorry about?" You should have more patience if you want your answer, you know, but whatever, fuck it. This is exasperating as hell. 

"I think I really like Sam," Bucky finally says, and you roll your eyes so hard you're surprised they don't go shooting off into the stratosphere. 

"That's a good thing, Bucky. I _want_ you to like Sam. My best friend _should_ like my boyfriend, and vice versa. It means peace for me." 

"No, you're not—" Bucky shakes his head some more. "You're not getting it. I _like_ him." He stares at you again, and you start frowning. "I _like_ him, Steve. I _like_ your boyfriend." 

"Like—" You bite your lip, hoping Bucky just doesn't know what he's saying. 

"I _want_ him, Steve. I know I fucking can't, but—I'm so sorry—" There he goes again, twisting up his features, and this time he slaps his hand over his face, threatening to singe his hair. 

Alright, no, Bucky knows what he's saying. 

For a moment, you picture Tony, happy between Rhodey and Pepper, both of them kissing him. You look at Bucky, and think about Pepper's soft smile for Tony, and you look at your hands, and think of Rhodey pressing a tender little kiss to Tony's fingers. 

You think about Sam calling it greedy, and huff out a big sigh, holding out your hand toward Bucky with beckoning fingers while you look at the ceiling. "Lemme get some of that." 

Bucky passes the blunt, and you're rusty at it but you hold a decent amount of smoke, blow it out eventually. Bucky takes it back, says he's sorry again. 

"Too bad we can't both date him, huh?" you say. And you can't even tell how much of you is joking, and how much is serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your continued comments! i've been feeling really burnt out at work and with health stuff lately so your comments really help me keep going, especially as we close in on the last few chapters that have the loosest planning lmao. also i hope this particular chapter is something people like


	9. interlude: bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky's lost year in under 3k

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a relatively short update, but hopefully the content (and the questions it might answer) will help make up for that!

At first, the garage owners don't take you seriously. The two brothers running a small fleet of black cabs look at you and your one arm, and they laugh. They say, sure, they're hiring drivers. Drivers who can put their hands at ten and two. 

You say something smart about how many cabs you've been in with drivers doing anything but. You say something else about just letting you try. 

"How did you lose the arm?" one of them asks as the other hands you a paper application to fill out. 

"Train doors are no joke," you deadpan, and they both laugh. 

There's no real interview. One of their drivers just stopped coming in to work, so they need someone to step in quick. One of the brothers, Constantin, asks you some offhand questions about your driving history, while Vasile gets you an I-9. The mystery you maintain about your amputation keeps them entertained, and it also keeps you from having to discuss the pile-up that actually caused it. A limb-severing accident doesn't look too good on your driving record, after all. 

Everyone else on the fleet is Romanian, which comes down to a lot of in-family hiring, and then hiring their friends after that, and _their_ friends after that. You're the first walk-in just asking for a job, they say, and someone jokes that it would be some one-armed Irishman from Brooklyn. You tell them Barnes is Scottish. They say you look Romanian and that maybe someone in your family lied about who they fucked. There's a lot of laughter, and then someone claps you on the back too hard, so you guess they like you. 

You accidentally introduce yourself as Bucky out of habit, despite your very clear plan you'd put together in the shower about going by James. It gets pretty much the reaction you expected, which is to call it weird and stupid-sounding. You try to backtrack, get James on the table, but they can't hear you over laughing at you. They rename you Bogdan, because that's a name they know that sounds similar enough, and then some of them start calling you Boggy, and now you have no other name at this job. 

Your roommate is barely ever at home, which is something you looked for specifically while trawling Craigslist on your phone. She works too much, something to do with architecture, and her only requirement of you is that you keep clean and keep quiet. With two jobs under your belt, now, you're barely in the apartment either. 

You wake up early for opening shifts at the McDonald's across from the Queens Center, where you work the back grill with increasing deftness, and your coworkers are finally starting to get used to your single arm. When they finally start teasing you—a sign of acceptance—it's about the double chin that's starting to form after taking your lunch at work day in and day out. Then you go back to apartment (you can't call it home) and groan through washing up and getting changed. As much as you go out of your way to prove you don't need two hands while at work, you're not used to this one hand thing, and when you're alone you fumble every fucking thing. Steve really babied you in those months after the accident. 

But you can't think about Steve. As of a month ago, Steve no longer exists, and with any luck, you eventually won't exist in his world, either. 

You take evening shifts driving your cab. Your shifts between both jobs overlap so you have no days off, which suits you fine. The more you work, the less time you have to think. Sometimes you even consider taking a third job, something with like 15 or 20 hours a week just to fill in the gaps. 

It's harder than you expected, getting back behind the wheel. You put your right hand at two o'clock and your left arm screams to be recognized at ten o'clock from the great beyond, phantom pains so tight that your jaw clenches itself sore. Every movement you see in your sideview mirror is a threat you can't jump at, not on the clock; everything in your rearview feels too close. You get to find out what it's like to work a full shift in the middle of a low grade panic attack, your heart pounding the entire time, your vision bright with too much oxygen. You want to put on soothing music, but your cab is so old all it has is a tape player, and you have no tapes except for the Marvin Gaye cassette in the glove compartment. 

But your customers don't ever seem to notice, so you keep at it. 

The nightmares start after the second panic attack, which in turn was caused by some speeding asshole in a Hummer nearly clipping your driver's side mirror while you were trying to pull out of a parking space. Every time, the cab crumples around you like a beer can in a giant invisible frat boy's hand. It doesn't matter what your dream self does before the crumpling, because once it starts, you're frozen in place, watching metal consume your body. Your dream self resigns himself to death in every dream, especially once you stop breathing in reality because the smashed car has started crushing your dream self's throat. 

The first night, you wake up halfway off your futon, uncomfortably drenched and shiny with sweat, with your roommate in the door asking if you're alright. She waits for you to pull your brain back together, waits for your gulping nod, and then asks you if this is going to be a regular thing. You promise her it won't be. 

The fifth night, she tells you she's very, very tired, and you might need to find somewhere else to live. 

The sixth night, you wake up with blood on the back of your tongue from where you unconsciously bit back your screams. Your dream self might not have any sense of self-preservation, but apparently your sleeping self does. Your roommate doesn't make good on her threat. 

You pick up bits and pieces of Romanian from your garage coworkers. _Bogdan_ and _Boggy_ don't go away, but the snickering that comes with them does. By the fifth month into your self-imposed exile, you're settled into your new life, and the nightmares even finally fade. 

You've put on a solid twenty pounds of fat on top of the weight you gained post-surgery, your new life even more sedentary and calorie-ridden than when Steve was taking care of you, but you don't resist it. You grow your hair out, try a beard. Vasile says you look like you work for the Duduieni (which you have to google later); Constantin says you look like someone's slob husband. You pick up dumbbells at the Target near your McDonald's and start working your arm and shoulder; you research how to work your other shoulder, go into Manhattan to buy the equipment you need for that. 

Eight months in, you take a fare to Brooklyn, despite a lurking paranoia that even this tiny dip into your home borough will be the end of your life as Boggy. Between the fat and muscle, you're forty pounds up from when you left, and between _that_ , your shoulder-length hair, and your beard, your face is totally transformed. Your shoulders are filled out to fit your new size, which has turned you into a veritable tank, and which is exactly what Steve will never look for. Some days even you don't recognize yourself in the mirror, and have to sit down or walk away before the dissociation catches you. 

You tell yourself you'll be alright if you just get a little bit of lunch. You're hungry, and all you have to do is buy it and then you can eat it in your car with the windows rolled up. You stop into a bodega with a deli counter, order a sandwich, grab chips and a can of soda. So far so good. 

You've got the door of your cab open, bag of food already deposited on the front passenger seat, when you spot her over the top of the car. 

Natasha. 

Her hair has gotten so long. She's tied it back in a sloppy ponytail, which means that she keeps pushing it out of her face as she taps at her phone, and every time she does, she looks up and around. Gone too is her usual crisp New York Bitch™ aesthetic, replaced by leggings and a big T-shirt that just advertises the gym Steve goes to. She looks tired. 

Steve might be fooled by your new look so long as you act casual, but Natasha is a whole 'nother ball game. Natasha is too sharp, and she knows your body language well from having to read it in the karate class where you first met her in fourth grade. (The first time you sparred with her, she flipped you onto your back so hard you saw stars around her face, and you crushed on her on and off for the next three years.) 

You bundle yourself into the driver's seat so fast you hit your head on the way in, and even that doesn't stop you from pulling away, driving faster than strictly allowed or even necessary to get away from Natasha's possible notice. After you put what you deem to be enough distance between you and her, you pull over in front of a hydrant and rest your forehead against the top of the wheel to hyperventilate your soul out. You play your only cassette until you can breathe again. 

A new nightmare arrives that night. You can't remember Steve's face. He has no face. You know you remember Natasha's face because you just saw it, but she has no face, either. You have no family. You have no memories. You have no breath. Metal wraps around you until its sharp edges puncture your soft body and bleed it out. You wake up in a bed damp with sweat and a face wet with unconscious tears. At least you don't scream anymore. 

You don't leave Queens again, not even to go to Manhattan. You put a sign right in your cab's window that says you will not leave the borough. You get a ticket for speeding, but you don't have a fare when it happens so you just pay the damn thing and leave Vasile and Constantin out of that particular loop. You drink before bed and sometimes it gives you that dreamless sleep you're looking for. People at both jobs keep telling you you seem like you're on edge. _Relax,_ they say. _You probably just need to get laid,_ someone jokes. 

Not that you think about that. Boggy Barnes is a beast, a mess, and well over 250 pounds of bone, muscle, organs and pure fat. Boggy has no fucking arm. Boggy drinks too much, and it's putting his living situation in jeopardy again. Boggy can't socialize for longer than half an hour before he panics with no discernible source. Boggy is a stupid fucking idiot who puts himself in nightmare-inducing situations five days a week, and refuses to ever stop, either. Nobody wants that, and nobody should. 

Your one year anniversary running away from everything and everyone you knew is coming up. You sit in your car in the dead of night and you weigh the pros and cons of dying. It'd be easier, definitely, than living this second life, cloistered in just a hundred square miles and change. It'd also solve the problem of removing yourself from Steve's life much more efficiently. Easier for him to move on from the dead than the missing, easier when there's a definite answer, when there's no hope. 

You play your tape. You have other cassettes now, but the Marvin Gaye one that came with the car is Your Tape now. You think of how he died, sad out of his mind and seeking death. You listen to his soft voice over piano, singing words of hope and love, and you rock back and forth, biting your lip until it bruises. You're not religious, even with a Jewish mother, but it feels spiritual anyway when you decide, at least for now, that you don't want to die. 

The next day you only have your McDonald's shift, and you feel like you're moving through water when you leave. You feel like you're on the other side of something, as if last night was a dividing point in your life. As if creating a new identity miles away from your old one wasn't. You get on the train but you lose time, and not because you're sleepy. You keep meaning to get off. Your legs feel like lead. 

When you finally make it off the train, you're in Brooklyn. Specifically, you're in downtown Brooklyn, a block away from the stretch of the Fulton Mall. You stand on the corner feeling like you need to make a decision, with muffled panic in the back of your head. You're supposed to have a new lease on life when you choose not to commit suicide, aren't you? Your fists clench with the anger you feel at yourself, but it doesn't make your body move any faster, or bring your brain back to speed. 

Someone is shouting at you. People have already bumped into you and called you slurs insulting your intelligence, prompting you to shuffle over to a street lamp pole, so you don't know what the problem could be now. They keep shouting. 

You turn to look at the source of the shouting, infuriatingly slow. You don't want to move at this molasses pace. Your eyes focus, and the person shouting holds his hands up in front of the bus that almost hit him. He's tall, blond, impossibly fit. He dashes the rest of the way out of the street—he crossed the street to get to you. 

"Bucky!" the stranger says, stopping just short of you. He looks afraid. Of what, you don't know. But he knows you. He knows the old you. He looks like he's related to—

The fog clears away as if parted by a knife as you actually look at his face. He looks like Steve because he _is_ Steve. A sob tears from your throat. 

"Steve?" 

That's all Steve needs. He throws his arms around you and squeezes like he wants to pop you open, pushing the side of his face against your shoulder over and over again. He keeps saying your name in his deep voice you don't recognize. People start to give you a real wide berth. 

After he's held you for a whole minute, he keeps his hands on your shoulders to put you at arm's length, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. "It's really you," he whispers, his smile warped by the fact that he's crying. "God, look at you." 

"Look at _you_ ," is all you can say in return, because where'd your skinny little Steve go? Not that you have any room to talk. "How'd you recognize me?" 

Steve laughs, even if it sounds kind of like hiccuping. "You think any of this—" he waves at your hair, your beard, your body, "—is gonna hide who you are from me? I know my best friend. I know you." 

"I dunno, that's what I figured. You're kind of a dope," you say, falling back into your usual banter with him so easy it kind of scares you. 

"Hey." Steve puts his knuckles against your arm, mimicking punching you there. "I still found you, didn't I?" 

"Guess you're a little smart, then," you snort. It feels too good to be Bucky again, even if you know it's only superficial. 

"Come on, Buck." The nickname washes over your brain like a salve, even delivered by Steve's shaky voice. Steve takes you by the elbow. "Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay SO i'm also hoping to update tomorrow with another quick interlude? and then next week we'll be back to the main plot with what i hope will be the second to last chapter, as you can see by my finally setting a definite number of chapters. 
> 
> another reminder that i exist in a fandom capacity at softsams.tumblr.com if you really wanna get yelling with me
> 
> i love love love all your comments, and they really do motivate me throughout the week!! i love your questions, i love your theories, i even love just plain ol' gushing of emotions. please don't stop! you're all so great


	10. interlude: natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another short little interlude to tide you over! more natasha and sharon, lining up more or less with the end of chapter 8.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk why but this one was harder to write and if it loses the thread toward the end it's the low grade migraine i started right around then. hope you life it anyway??

Sam finds you and Sharon at the bar a little while later, minus another piece of his costume with a whiff of sex you can only smell when he leans past you to give his order to the bartender. "You guys still here?" 

"This is not really a costume you dance in," you say, tapping Sam's shoulder with a spider leg just to watch him shudder. 

"It's not a costume you do anything in," Sam says, pointedly avoiding the eyes of your mask. You shake your head just enough to set the googly eyes rolling again, and Sam slaps a wobbly hand over them. "I'm not sober enough for all of this." 

"You sticking around for a while?" Sharon says, since you kind of have Sam's thumb over your mouth. You flick your tongue across the pad of it, and Sam yelps, snatching his hand back and wiping it off on his skirt. 

"Not around that," he says, pointing at you, and you give him your best devious spider smile. "But, uh, one more round and then we're out. Bucky's—" Sam laughs, interrupting himself. 

"Let me guess, Bucky's wasted beyond all reason because we were cruel enough to bring him without his own date," you say, and Sam just nods, still chuckling to himself. 

"Yeah, and I guess I'm technically about to make it worse. But at least he won't be alone for this drink." 

"How kind of you." You run your finger around the rim of your glass of water; if the room weren't so noisy, you'd probably hear it sing. 

Sam looks at your drink, then looks at Sharon and her empty martini glass. "Y'all having a bad night, or—?" 

"Why, because I'm trying not to have a hangover?" you say, a little sharper than you mean to. Sharon glances at you, and you sigh, try a smile while Sharon picks up where you left off. 

"We were already dancing when you got here, you know," Sharon says, right as Sam's trio of drinks are pushed across the counter top. She takes her chance to order another martini, which will make her second drink of the night. What a jock your girlfriend is. 

"Turns out there's nothing so quick to clear space on the dance floor than a bunch of big hairy spider legs touching everyone all over," you add. Sam collects his drinks, looking again at the spider legs with a muppet-like frown. 

"If we wanna be old ladies and sit on our asses while we rest from, you know, dancing," Sharon says, as her drink arrives, "then we will, and we'll get out there again eventually." 

"On the dance floor, or in those weird side rooms?" Sam says with a little smirk. Sharon looks legitimately confused, but oh, you knew about those side rooms. You stumbled into one after dancing, trying to find a bathroom, and got such an eyeful of bare ass—like, at least ten cheeks in one bed—that you couldn't even speak as you slammed the door shut. (Then you snuck just your hand back in, and locked the door from the inside for them. You're working on being more thoughtful, after all.) 

Sam takes the drinks back to wherever he left Steve and Bucky, and you're alone with Sharon again. Well, alone in the sense that you know her; even sitting at the bar, there are people uncomfortably close to your back. She rubs her fingers through the shaggy fuzz on the side of your head. "How're you feeling, honey?" 

Honey. She calls you honey, all the time, and she means it. There's a flash in your brain where you exist somewhere else, and then Sharon's touch grounds you. "I dunno," you say, and you're being honest. You feel overloaded being here, especially with Sharon rationing your alcohol the way you'd agreed to before heading out. But you like sitting with her, tangling your ankle around hers as you sip from her glass and talk about everyone's costumes. And the idea of leaving—of having to part the sea of drunken party people—both terrifies and excites you. 

"You wanna stay here a little longer?" She lets her hand drop to cover yours on the counter, rubs her thumb over yours. 

"Here like the bar, or here like the party, like those side rooms Sam talked about?" you reply with a little snort. Sharon laughs in return, ducking her head like that'll hide her blush from you. Of course, the lighting in the room does that just fine, but you know by now what she looks like when she's feeling bashful. 

"Why, you wanna try one of those rooms?" she asks when she comes up, fluttering her lashes, and there's your suave Sharon. 

"With everything you _know_ is going on in them?" you say, flashing back to whatever orgy you barely interrupted. "I wanna be in my own bed." 

Sharon's hold on your hand tightens, just a little bit. "When?" You can feel her foot curling around yours. (You can also feel that she's lost a shoe, probably somewhere just under her stool.) 

"Now could be good." You're already imagining the dash to freedom, to the elevators, to the street, the subway. And Sharon's smile spreads slow across her face. 

You glimpse the boys on your way out, rowdy and absolutely sloshed (especially Bucky), but they're drunk enough they don't see you back. Sharon doesn't put her heels back on until you hit the sidewalk, and then you have to support her because she's not actually much of a drinker. Two drinks in, and she might be good at pretending to talk like she's sober, but her legs aren't in on that secret. You trade shoes, even though her feet are smaller and her heels pinch yours painfully. 

When you get back to your place Sharon falls onto your couch, giggling even though the ride home sobered her up some. "Help me out of this, Nat," she says, flipping onto her stomach so she can stick her ass up and wag it at you. "I can't believe I agreed to wear plastic wrap in public." 

"Around a slip dress," you point out, but you don't need to be told twice. You get the safety scissors from the kitchen, snip at the plastic and run the scissors up. Unfortunately you cut open her slip, too, but Sharon looks at it and says it was on sale at Charlotte Russe, so how much can she care? 

You have Sharon literally face down, ass up in front of you, dressed only in mismatched underwear, and your hands can't help but find their way to her ass, but god, you're still in this fucking spider costume. Sharon laughs when you mutter your request for her help getting it off, because you really need it, and you accidentally hit her in the face with one of the stationary spider legs. But she pushes the whole getup to the floor, and pulls you out of the leggings and cami underneath, finds her favorite bra of yours underneath, and her kisses to your collarbone pull you back in. 

"You were wearing that bra at the party the whole time, and I didn't know," she says, laughing breathily when you knee-walk up to her and sit between her thighs. You run your fingers up and down their silky insides, always just shy of the heat of her labia. The bra in question looks almost normal, but the cups barely exist, slivers of foam and satin that hug the bottom swells of your breasts while your nipples crest their tops. You bought it just to let Sharon know you have it, and sometimes you do just this to her, wear it for hours before showing it to her. Her pupils always blow out when you finally reveal it. 

She wastes no time, her fingers skimming your nipples until they're so hard it almost hurts. Sharon puts her lips to one, her tongue soothing inside a delicate kiss, and one hand keeps stroking the top of your other breast. It makes you ache below, and when Sharon notices you rutting against her she pulls at you until you straddle her. No, higher. Around her shoulders. No, higher than that. And she puts her mouth to you. 

Sharon is all gusto, tongue to your clit and lips all around it like she's never tasted better. It turns your legs useless, your whole body trembling, and you have to physically push her away before she makes you come too early. You sit back, and while you catch your breath you consider how beautiful Sharon is. Her strong muscles under skin that's still golden from summer, and from all the gross carrot juice she drinks. The body hair she won't shave, blonde and shining from her ankles all the way into her pubic hair and onto her stomach. The way she parts her legs to show you how wet she's gotten just from being around you and touching you, pink and glistening. 

The harness you take out of your dresser almost matches your quarter cup bra, and the red Feeldoe you fit into it matches the trim on it. When the short end sinks into you it makes you groan, but better is when you push into Sharon, inch by slick inch, and she digs her fingers into your shoulders. You can feel it every time you bottom out, the bulb inside you grinding into you in kind. She wraps her legs around your hips to push you in deeper with every thrust, runs her hands up your soft stomach to squeeze at your tits. When she fumbles for a bullet vibe out of your bedside drawer, she doesn't let you pull out, and when she presses the vibrator against her clit you can feel its phantom vibrations travel up your plastic dick and into you. 

Sharon comes, eyes screwed tight and hips bucking against yours with the vibe slipping from her fingers, and as it fades she cups your jaw, whispers _I love you_ in a sex-drunk mumble. 

In the moment, you don't freeze. No, you stay inside Sharon because her next words are to tell you as much, and she presses the vibe in circles around your clit while she kisses you. It pushes Sharon's three words at bay, fills your head up with wordlessness until it pops and orgasm washes over you. 

For a moment you just sag against her, still brainless in the afterglow. It's easy to stay just as empty-headed in the ritual of cleanup, accept Sharon's little pecks to your cheek and your neck and your back in the bathroom. She doesn't look like she knows what she's done. She sure doesn't act like it. 

You're clean and warm in nothing but a big T-shirt, and Sharon falls asleep with her thigh between both of yours despite laying flat on her back. You want to curl up near her and fall asleep too. 

Except fear keeps you awake. It doesn't matter if she meant it, this handful of months into your relationship, or if she was just talking in a happy sex haze. Both options fill you up with dread until it spills out of your eyes in tears that only confuse you. You turn your face to the wall in case she wakes up, because she can't see this, especially when you don't even understand it. 

Three hours of no sleep later you pull yourself out of bed and away from Sharon, grab your phone and some underwear and throw yourself on the couch. If you lose yourself in scrolling through a dumb gimmick Twitter, you don't have to think about either option. 

You don't have to consider that you'll probably never be able to say those words back if she meant them, because there's some important part of you that got cut out before you even knew it was gone. It makes you cold even when you don't want to be, but you didn't lose the part of you that recognizes what an awful person it makes you. 

Neither do you have to consider that Sharon couldn't have meant it, because who could ever think that way about you? Who could ever grow so attached to someone like you? 

Well, there's always Bucky, but that's because Bucky's brand of being fucked up is complementary to your own. That makes you laugh a little in the dark, at least. 

The light turns on, making you flinch like a vampire at daybreak. Sharon stands by the light switch, worry painted gently onto her features. "Are you okay, Nat?" 

"Fine," you say with a little nod, tucking a scrap of hair behind your ear. You can't look at Sharon for too long, and you're glad your phone is here to distract you and keep your face impassive. 

"Can't sleep?" She can never leave anything alone. She comes to the couch, sits one cushion over from you and runs her fingers through the back of your hair. When you don't lean into it, or even look up, though, her hand drops, and she twists her fingers together in her lap. 

Well, confirmation yet again that you're scum, anyway. You should have reacted. Your neurons are firing at half-speed. "Sorry, um—" 

"I did something stupid, didn't I?" Sharon asks, her voice small. You finally look at her properly, and her smile is one made of embarrassment and sadness. "Whatever I did, I promise I'm sorry. Just—just tell me what I did." 

Technically, she's not wrong. It's something she did—something she _said_ —that's got you feeling this fucked up. But you hate that you made her feel this way. You can't do anything right. 

"It's just me, I promise," you say, reaching for one of those anxious hands. "Just my bad brain. It's not you." 

"If it's your bad brain, I know it's because something I did or said set it off," Sharon counters, almost instantly. She still takes your hand, though. "Just tell me what it was." 

You turn on the couch, shifting until you face her, and she does the same so you can hold both her hands. "You didn't do anything wrong." That's also technically not wrong. It's only you putting all this overthinking into the barest handful of words. At least reassuring her is a good thing to do. 

"Okay, fine. It wasn't me," Sharon says with a frustrated little laugh, before blowing hair out of her face. "Just tell me." 

She's got you cornered. Of course she does. Sharon is fierce in every aspect of her life, and her emotional life is no different. You bite your lip, wishing for a time machine, or a way to melt through the floor. 

"Do you remember what you said? At the end?" 

"At the end?" Sharon frowns, squeezing your hands in thought. 

"When—" You lick your lips in anxiety. "When you came. When you were coming down." 

Sharon's face does a few things. First she frowns deeper, then her brows crook upward as if in concern. Her face starts to smooth out, and her eyes widen, her mouth slowly opening. "Oh. Oh, _god_ —uh—" 

"I know it shouldn't bother me," you say, quiet, but Sharon seems to skip right over that. 

"It just kind of slipped out," she says, blushing a deep pink. "I kind of hoped you wouldn't notice, honestly, I—Jesus Christ, I'm so—" 

It's not really the reaction you expected. You don't know _what_ it is, honestly. "You hoped I what?" 

"I don't know, Natasha, _god_. You're so aloof sometimes I feel like it's embarrassing to be too emotional around you." She bites her lip, looking down. "Sorry. Shit. That was a shitty thing to say." 

"I told you I was a bad person, that night at the bar," you say, but you let go of her hands to touch your fingers just under her chin. "You think I'm aloof?" 

Sharon laughs a little. "A little, I guess. You seem so cool sometimes I can't even believe I'm dating you. What I said, I—" 

"Did you mean it?" You don't mean to interrupt her, but the question has been burning your brain all night. 

That just flusters Sharon more. "Kind of? It was kind of in the moment, but." She keeps kneading at the hem of her sleep shirt. "It didn't come out of nowhere, I guess. I love being around you. I love sex with you. I love talking to you, I love just knowing you." She shrugs. "I know we've only known each other since the start of the summer, really, but I'm always so glad I met you, and I'm even more glad you thought enough of me to go out with me." 

You start laughing. You can't help it. Sharon looks confused, little flashes of hurt popping up here and there, but you can't stop until the laughter decides for itself that it's over. By the time you're finished there's laugh tears in the far corners of your eyes. 

"Sorry," you say at last, "just—" More laughter. Fuck. You get your breath back, practically wheezing. "That's how _I_ feel about you. I'm just the bitch who got lucky when it came to you choosing to stick around." 

For a minute you just laugh together. You make some joke about how Bucky and Steve are infecting you with their drama, and that gets some giggles, too. 

When you're both winded from laughing so much, you put your forehead to Sharon's, sighing. "You're too good for me, Sharon, don't you know that?" 

"I'm not too good for anyone, least of all you," she murmurs back. "You're my favorite bad person." 

"You're my favorite jock," you reply, which gets a snort. 

"Think you can sleep now?" Sharon asks. 

"Maybe with a goodnight kiss," you say, before you can stop yourself. 

"You have to come back to bed for that," she says, with a wicked grin that practically splits her face. 

"I guess that's a fair deal for a criminal like me," you say, and let Sharon pull you up off the couch. You go back to bed, but it turns out you're both too tired to do much more than exchange a few chaste kisses before you finally fall asleep, sprawled against each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a reminder that i exist at softsams on tumblr solely to scream about sam, sambucky, samsteve, and f/f of any kind you can throw at me lmao
> 
> i know ao3 is being fucky right now so maybe you won't see this update until later but either way thank you for the continuing comments!! you're all great


	11. sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sam and his many conversations, all of them alarming to some degree or another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really thought i might not get this one done on time but HERE IT IS and hopefully i didn't end up rushing it. i'm finding out more people read this than i thought and i'm out here trying to adjust to this knowledge! lmao anyway only two chapters to go now

The air always feels different after Halloween, with the promise of winter and its crisp bite. Steve teases you about having to bundle up, especially since you're always colder than he is. There's been a cold snap the past few days, which means you've had to bring out the scarf that doubles as a lap blanket, and the first time you unfurled it in front of Steve so you could refold it, he laughed so hard he melted down the side of the couch. 

Those are the only moments Steve seems to be present lately, though. It's been days since Tony Stark's party, and your attentive, very physical boyfriend has turned into a space case. He worries at one side of his lip or the other with a single canine, stares off into nothingness even when he's walking with you, cracks his knuckles over and over again until you have to put your hand over his to make him stop. The man has walked into a lamp pole, for Christ's sake. When you ask him if he's okay, he always looks startled, and gives you a quick smile and a peck on the cheek before telling you _Yeah, babe, I'm good._

There's only one event concurrent with the advent of zombie Steve, and when you think about it it makes you nauseous. You've always prided yourself on being a good partner, especially as you age, but you should have known better than to assume you'll always be perfect at it. While Steve astral projects or whatever he's doing, you go over the sex you had in your head, replaying it so much you start to doubt you're remembering it right. What did you do wrong? Didn't he want everything you did together? Did you miss some cue from him, some body language meant to tell you to back off? 

Maybe right at the end. Maybe you were too aggressive. Or maybe in the beginning, trying too hard to get him naked. You must have fucked up. You weren't considerate enough, caring enough— 

On the fourth day, you meet Steve at his new gym in Gowanus, and it's the same astronaut Steve who slips his hand into yours and stares into the street as he walks with you. After he's said hello, after he's kissed you, yes, but it's like he's doing the bare minimum. So you open your big mouth. 

"Steve," you say, and there's that startled reaction again. Like you broke him out of deep thought. 

"Yeah, babe." 

"About Halloween night." 

Steve finally looks at you, expectant and curious. "What about it?" 

You should have just said it all at once instead of dragging it out like this. "Are you... Are you okay with what we did?" 

"What we—" Steve takes a moment to remember, and you can _see_ the moment he does, because the smile that curls across his face comes with a pink flush to his cheeks. "More than okay. Why?" The smile gets interrupted by a frown. "What's wrong?" The frown deepens. "Did I do something wrong?" 

Unbelievable. You have to laugh, warm breaths into your scarf. "I was gonna ask _you_ that." 

Steve pulls you aside, lets you lean back on a mailbox while he runs his hands up and down the backs of your arms. "Why do you think you did something wrong, Sam?" Here's the Steve you've been missing, pressed close with any conversation. You bring your hands up so you can rearrange his blue scarf, because he always puts it on thoughtlessly and leaves the hollow of his throat open to the elements. Didn't anyone ever teach you that's how death enters the body in winter? 

"You've been kind of distant, is all, since then," you say, keeping your voice soft. You've never been afraid of passers by knowing your business before, really, but this feels like a private moment. Good thing this neighborhood is so barren. 

"I've seen you every day since then, Sam." Steve angles his head for your grooming as you reach up to adjust his hat, too. 

"It's not that. It's like you're off in space even when we're together." His ears are so red from the cold. Nobody ever taught him to pull his hat all the way down, either, you guess. 

Steve looks stricken. He must know, then, how he's been acting, and you don't know if that's better or worse. He leans over, putting his forehead to yours, and it pushes his hat back to undo your work in getting it into place. "I'm sorry, Sam." He sighs, then straightens so he can kiss your forehead. "I've been having a hard time at work these past few days." 

"I thought you moved to this gym to _escape_ hard times," you snort. "I thought this was gonna be the dream gig." 

"No job's perfect," Steve says with a gentle laugh. "I, uh, I got a new client who's a pain in the ass. He wants to look like 70's Schwarzenegger but makes excuses for every exercise I want him to try." 

Steve doesn't sound like he's lying. You guess you don't know why he would. It's not like he's—

You won't even consider that option. Steve isn't a cheater. You look up into his eyes, their flecks of green, the crow's feet at their corners bunched by his smile, and you're sure of it. 

Steve starts kissing both your cheeks, then your mouth, just once before you can get into it too much. "Besides," he whispers, "I don't know why you'd think you messed up the other night. That was the best orgasm of my life." He's grinning so hard it must hurt his face. 

"Of your _life?"_ You're at once taken aback and flattered as hell, and you run your hands over Steve's shoulders, the muscle of them apparent even through layers of acrylic and wool. "Don't you try to butter me up, Rogers." 

"If you're calling me Rogers that means you _did_ take my name, Sam Rogers," Sam murmurs in return, and you guffaw as you push him away. 

"Like hell, Steve Wilson," you retort, but when you start walking again, you feel warmer, nestled into your scarf and with Steve's hand wrapped around yours. 

You go home with Steve, thinking about how lonely your apartment has gotten lately. At least it stays clean with so little happening in it, save for the layer of dust you keep ignoring when you do spend time at home. 

Bucky is there, of course. He never gets the late shifts at work, the better for his schedule to line up with Steve's. And you don't begrudge the man time in his own home, of course—you've both moved past that. 

But since that day Bucky ran from you, things haven't been the same. He never initiates texts anymore, and the less you hear from him, the less inclined you are to be the first to text. He sends you memes, sometimes, but if you react to them all you get is a read receipt. There have definitely been no more movie afternoons, and no more full meals masquerading as movie snacks. You only go to Sheepshead Bay to see Steve, now, which should feel normal. 

But you miss Bucky. As much as you enjoy Steve, Bucky is such a different flavor, from his humor to his opinions to even the way he sits when he's engrossed in something. Where Steve is smooth, almost earthy in how comforting his presence can be, Bucky is something acrid, a bittersweet burst at the back of the teeth. You miss his jabs. You miss watching him watch movies, the way he lets a story overtake his emotions and come out through his eyes. You miss—

You miss the warmth his big body radiates, so near on the couch. You miss the way he pads around on the balls of his feet because he hates it when his heels thud and make the furniture shake. You miss the way he stretches out the longer a movie goes, his legs sliding alongside yours. You miss the way he tells you secrets. 

You try not to look at him when you follow Steve further into the apartment. He's curled up on the couch around a controller, playing the used 360 he treated himself to recently—a fact you found out through Steve, not Bucky. You move through the living room too quickly to really see what he's playing, ducking into the kitchen. 

Steve's not with you, though. "I thought we could watch something together tonight," Steve says from the living room, while you busy yourself peering in the fridge like you actually want anything from it. (You don't.) 

"Gonna have to get Bucky to save his game, then," you say as you consider the beer selection. No, no alcohol. Not when you're around Bucky and your own stupid feelings. "Might be rude to kick him off the couch." 

"I'm not getting off the couch," Bucky calls out. This is what he does, now. He won't talk to just you, but he's fine with being in a conversation you happen to be part of. You wish he'd choose whether he wants to ignore you or not, and just commit to it already. 

"Together like all three of us," Steve says. "I thought it'd be nice to have a movie night with my two favorite people." 

"Don't let Nat hear you say that." Bucky sits up a little, and Steve laughs. 

"Two _of_ my favorite people," Steve amends. "Sam, come out here." 

Steve is a force unto himself when it comes to getting what he wants. You've barely acknowledged this is happening before you find yourself installed on the middle cushion of the couch, with Steve on your left and Bucky on your right. Steve is big, and Bucky is even bigger, and with all three of you on one piece of furniture, there's not a lot of room to spare. 

You lean into Steve, of course, even as he fumbles the remote in trying to use the onscreen keyboard in the Netflix search. But Bucky is still close, and he doesn't seem to be making an effort to be closer to or farther from you either way. He looks straight ahead at the screen, single elbow braced on his knee, although you know he's not comfortable like that. Whenever he's watched anything with you he's always liked to be a full blown couch potato with his feet up off the floor and his shoulders back. 

The couch dips in the middle, right where you are, so you can't stay away from Bucky forever, especially when Steve gets up to go to the bathroom and you're stuck with Bucky. Sure, you could move over into Steve's space, but what if Bucky reads into that? You don't even know what he'd read into it, or if it would be a bad thing if he did, really. But the best course of action seems like inaction, like an animal hoping it won't be seen if it stays still. So you stay with your right shoulder just shy of Bucky's stump, your hips slumped down the couch to press against one huge thigh, and god, you wish you could ignore him the way he seems to be ignoring you. 

You keep thinking of what he looked like with his eyes closed, his pulse fluttering against your palm. You think, with a brain burning with shame, of his long dark lashes against flushed cheeks. The way he pushed his face against your hand. The way he looked at you, startled and afraid, before he ran. You think of it, over and over again like everything else you've been thinking about lately, and you feel lightheaded being so close to him right now. 

You wish he'd look at you. You're glad he's not. 

With the end of the movie, Bucky and Steve immediately designate themselves the cleanup crew, as if it takes two people to pick up a bowl of unpopped kernels and three empty glasses and wash them all. You're left on the couch, considering giving the movie a rating even though it's Steve's account. (Three stars for the fucking love triangle, because that shit's way too on the nose for your emotions right now.) 

Steve and Bucky are taking too long for someone as bored as you're getting, and anyway you left your phone to charge in the kitchen, out of habit since the day Bucky threw a charger at your face. You haul yourself up off the couch, and head toward the kitchen. What you hear, though, stops you just outside its entrance, out of sight of both men. 

"I just can't be around him like this, Steve." 

That's Bucky's voice. And there's only one person _him_ could be. 

Jesus, hadn't you both already put this shit to bed? For a moment you're almost dizzy with anger, and you brace yourself against the wall. Your hand hits the plaster a little too hard, though, and all talk in the kitchen comes to a halt. "Sam?" Steve says. 

You take a deep breath, and swing into the kitchen with a bright smile for Steve's eyes only. "Just grabbing my phone since you were taking so damn long." Which is the truth. You reach past Bucky without looking at him to pull your phone off its charger, and as you pass Steve he dips his head instinctively for the cheek kiss you give him. 

Fucking Bucky. Fuck Bucky. Fucking _Bucky._ You excuse yourself within twenty minutes of that bullshit, tell Steve you've really got to work on a new blog post, and if he wants you to keep a roof over your head he'll understand. (He does.) Your eyes slide over Bucky like he's an ugly cafe painting, because fuck him, when you've tried so hard to be the bigger person. 

The next day you're still salty about it, despite telling yourself as you fell asleep that you were over it, because being mad at Bucky is like being mad a a dog. That's what you told yourself, and yet here you are eating Cheerios like each individual loop of cardboard insulted your mother. Here you are rifling through your closet so hard you whip one of your favorite pieces right off the hanger, and you chase it to the floor while apologizing to a damn piece of fabric. You've got to get your shit together. 

You ride the train out to Pratt, due for another modeling session with the dreaded art students. When you come out of the station you tell yourself you don't have to reply to anything Bucky says, and send him a single text. 

**so i guess steve is picking the movies now since you won't**

Then you immediately silence your phone, even move with pure speed just to turn off vibrations, too, and shove it in your bag. You won't be tempted to look if you just forget your phone exists. 

You go the modeling gig, strip down naked and hit your poses. You're strong enough to hit reasonably dynamic poses for the 15 minute drawings, which you think might be earning you a little more cash than some others, but maybe you just imagined hearing that. What you still don't like is the way you can catch so many of them eyeing your dick, but you almost laugh when you consider some of the texts you've already had with Rhodey on the subject. You said some of these students look at your dick like it's the first one they've ever seen, and Rhodey said it was probably just the first black dick they've ever seen. You laughed too hard to mention that there were plenty of black students in the class. 

After you're clothed and paid, you still don't want to look at your phone, so when you head out to go window shopping (you're still too broke to buy anything new, even with ad money rolling in soon), you have no idea what time it is. At all. You flip through rack after rack but you're so distracted thinking about how if you see one cross word from Bucky you're going to read him an entire essay about himself, a fucking memoir, you will read him his own last will and testament. Haven't you been through enough shit? Hasn't Bucky been difficult enough? 

Right before you descend into the station to head home, you finally relent, and check your phone. 

_you havent picked any either so_

You almost throw your phone down the stairs, except you know you can't afford a replacement with your impoverished ass. Instead you just look at the sky for strength, and put your phone at the bottom of your bag. You're not going to reply. 

A few days later, Steve reminds you that Bucky and Natasha have, yet again, managed to get themselves on the same bill for another comedy gig in another small-time Brooklyn bar. And since they're both Steve's friends, and you like Natasha well enough, you're going with Steve to see them perform. 

There's something surreal about watching Bucky onstage again, hoping your eyes are sending as much venom as you feel, since you can't ignore him more pointedly by looking at your phone. He's improved his act a lot, relying less on arm puns and more actual funny anecdotes. His confidence is up, too—or well, until he looks you straight in the eye, and chokes. Literally chokes, probably on his own spit, and you have to take a moment to really wonder how this is the specimen you're so worked up about. 

Natasha goes two people after Bucky, with a bit on growing up with hardline Soviet parents, even after the fall of the USSR; she sells it so much you're not sure if it's just an act or not. You don't think you have the courage to ask her. She gets good laughs, though, which is incredible given the subject matter. 

After the show, Bucky and Natasha stay to schmooze, and Steve says he's tired. You give him a look, because he hasn't shown any sign of being tired up until that moment—and his yawn seems a little too wide—but he just slips his hand around your waist under your unzipped coat, fingers pressing firm, and you think you get the idea. You figure you can take another sleepover in Sheepshead Bay. (At this point you have a slice of space in Steve's closet for morning-after clothes, because you got tired of borrowing too-big sweats and T-shirts that make you look like a slob.) 

Maybe Steve really is tired, though, because when he takes you to bed, there's none of his usual ardency. Instead you get languid kisses and slow caresses that go from the back of your head to the side of your thigh and back again. Not that you really mind, at your age. Slow is nice, too. 

"Hey, Sam," Steve murmurs into your wrist as he presses light kisses there. 

"Yeah, Steve." Steve's had you half-hard for the past twenty minutes, none of his touches anything past teasing, but relentless anyway. 

"You remember Tony with your friend Rhodey, and that lady, at the party?" Steve glances at you through his eyelashes, like that might make the question sound more innocent. 

"...Yeah." You frown, watching Steve's face. "Pepper. What about them?" 

"Did you really think they were being greedy?" He sounds careful in his words, and he doesn't stop touching you, letting one hand rest on your hip while the other traces your collarbone. 

"I said greedy, didn't I?" you say with a little laugh. "I dunno. It's their business. I'll blame that vodka I bet Natasha planted in your freezer." 

"No one told you to pregame with vodka," Steve laughs back. "So you think they're happy?" 

"I don't know? I'm not sitting here thinking about them all the time. I'm thinking about you, dummy." 

"And my bad cooking?" 

"I love that you try," you sigh, taking the hand on your hip so you can kiss it. "But if I had any kind of decent income I'd get us in one of those couples cooking classes." 

But Steve is doggedly persistent, despite every step you take away from his initial topic. "So what do you really think, then, of polyamory?" 

That makes you frown again. "What the hell is prompting this?" 

"Just answer it?" He holds your hand to his chest with both of his, like that'll help his cause. (Well, it does, just a little bit.) 

But those ideas you repressed earlier bubble up in the back of your mind like hot bile on the back of your tongue, burning before they even arrive. "Who is it you like so much?" you ask, trying to keep your voice even. "Who's your Tony?" 

Steve sighs, and it feels like confirmation. Your heart starts to race. Your brain is already constructing the future for you, showing you how you'll fade in the face of this newcomer, how you'll be phased out. How you'll lose Steve, in a process slower and crueler than just being dumped for a better model. Probably someone closer to his age. 

But then he's smiling, shaking his head like there's a joke you're just not in on. "It's not about who I like," he says. He holds up your hand to kiss your wrist again. "It's about who likes _you."_

Everything in your brain shifts so rapidly it almost makes you nauseous. _Bucky._ Your memory of his just-shaved cheek sliding against your palm is too vivid. 

Except, no. He said he couldn't be around you. No. Not Bucky. You're lost. "Who?" 

There's almost hesitation in Steve's next breath, but there's nothing negative about it. It's a shy kind of happiness. "Bucky," he says at last. "He told me—" 

Your heart seizes. "Bucky? Bucky who said he couldn't stand to be around me? _That_ Bucky?" 

Steve looks at you out of the corner of his eye, his smile faltering. "You were listening to that?" 

"I was coming to get my phone. That's all I heard, and that's all I really needed to hear." 

He licks his lips with a twitch of a frown. "He was berating me for sitting you right next to him when I knew he liked you. You know, his best friend's boyfriend?" 

"And why _would_ you do a thing like that, Steve?" You nearly laugh as you say it. 

Steve goes red-hot with embarrassment. "I dunno. A lot of stupid ideas coming together for one _really_ stupid idea, I guess. I'm not that smart sometimes." 

"Shut up, Steve. Self-deprecation is not a cute look on you." You curl your leg around his, squeeze it closer to you. "Alright then, what'd Bucky tell you?" 

"I probably shouldn't tell you, really," Steve says. "It's his business." But you can see in his eyes he's gonna tell you anyway. "But he told me he liked you, like _really_ liked you, and I think I can tell you that much. He said—" Steve licks his lips again. "He said he _wanted_ you." 

Your mind can't help it. Bucky's body is so big, and warm, and what would it be like to be closer to that? To be under that? Can you even say this is the first time you've thought about it? 

And you know Steve can tell when you're blushing, that he notices the way your eyelids get heavy and your lips part just that slight bit, but you look down and try to not let him see, anyway. 

"How do you feel about Bucky?" 

"Like he's your friend," you say with a numb mouth, instant in your reply. 

"Is that it?" 

You look up again. God, look at him. Giving you this earnest stare, really waiting on your answer. You think he knows. 

"I thought," you say, slowly, "about what it might have been like, if I'd met Bucky first, sometimes. I think—" You have to stop and swallow around your tongue that suddenly feels dry and too big for your mouth. "I think I could have been happy, too. But I'm happy here, right now, with you. So it doesn't even matter." 

You wait for Steve's feelings to be hurt by your hypothetical infidelity. Your thought crime. And you think you see something flash across his face, but it's eclipsed so quickly by a bright smile that you can't even name it. 

"See?" he says, scooting closer to kiss your forehead and your cheeks. "This could work, if you wanted to try." 

"With your jealous ass?" you snort, right before Steve plants a kiss on your lips that shuts you up. 

"I know I'm sensitive," Steve chuckles, with as much of a shrug as lying on his side permits. "But I'm more interested in the people I care about being happy. And if you think this could make you happy, because I know it would make Bucky happy, then it's what'll make me happy." 

Jesus. You don't know what you did to deserve a man like Steve. It's almost too much. "Let me think about it," you say, mostly to get Steve off your back. What you should say is _No, of course I don't want to date two men, you're enough man for me and then some_ or something to that effect, but what if—? 

"Alright," Steve agrees, still smiling. "One more argument in favor though?" 

"Hit me." 

"Bucky cooks a _lot_ for the people he's with," Steve says, like he's sharing some kind of illicit secret. You assume that's some pre-accident intel, but Steve knows Bucky better than you. "Like, really gets off his ass, breakfast lunch and dinner kind of cooking." 

"That's a pretty good argument, I can't deny it," you laugh. Bucky's already cooked you a mean grilled cheese, and when he did it a second time he added bacon after finding out you ate pork. His frying skills are some Food Network shit. Even your mother would approve of his mac and cheese. 

"Yeah?" Steve pulls you closer, nudges his thigh between your legs until you're straddling it. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? No more having to endure my sorry cooking if Bucky's champing at the bit to feed you." 

"I still don't understand how Bucky hasn't been able to teach you how to cook," you say, right before Steve puts his lips to your neck and makes you groan. 

"I guess my energies are focused on other things," Steve replies, grinning against your skin as he rocks his thigh against you. 

"Excuses," you say, the word riding out on a shuddering breath. After that you don't talk about it anymore, though, too busy with the way Steve splits you open on his newest cock, almost splitting the bed in half, too. 

You told yourself the answer you gave Steve was just to placate him, but the next day, you find yourself really, actually thinking about it. You're writing an email to a potential sponsor for your blog and you keep typing Bucky's name where you mean to use the rep's name. You try to cook lunch for yourself and set off your smoke alarm because your distracted ass forgot about the oil you were heating. You scold yourself for being such a mess. 

You end up texting Rhodey about it, because he's the closest you have to an expert. You ask him how he got with Tony, and how Pepper factors in. The story you get is more information than you ever wanted to know about Tony Stark, but Rhodey also paints him as a much more sensitive, caring man than the one you met. It's kind of sweet, actually. And Pepper? She just happens to be the girlfriend of Rhodey's boyfriend, that's all. Rhodey respects and likes her, but it's not about to turn into some kind of threeway. 

The next day you leave one art school to go to another, because you figure if you're going to resign yourself to this while you keep trawling Craiglist for your big break, you may as well hit up multiple schools and multiply your money. On your way to the train station, you text Rhodey again. Doesn't he ever feel jealous? Doesn't he ever feel like Tony isn't really his? 

On the train where there's no service to receive Rhodey's reply, you think that maybe it's a moot question for you, considering you'd be the Tony if you accepted Steve's proposal. But you don't want Steve to feel left behind, even if it's his own damn idea. (Never mind how Bucky might feel about it. You can't even broach that yet, because then you might really have to consider what it'd be like for him to touch you.) 

Rhodey's reply is that it'd be like being jealous of your best friend having other friends. Tony lets him know he's as wholly Rhodey's as he is Pepper's, and it's not like Tony has to keep them physically separate. (Rhodey clarifies, again, no threesomes.) There's no burning jealousy at the sight of Tony giving Pepper a kiss, and Pepper doesn't blink when Tony gives Rhodey's ass a squeeze in passing. It's an arrangement that feels nice when all parties agreed to it. 

The next morning before you've even had breakfast, you find yourself bothering Rhodey with yet another question. What makes it good for him? 

He replies back a half hour later telling you first of all, never text him that early again or he'll block your ass for a week. Fifteen minutes after that, you get his real answer. 

It's about what makes all of them happy, he says. Tony is happy because he doesn't have to choose, doesn't feel like he has to reject either person he feels for. Doesn't have to wonder about the path not taken. Pepper is visibly happy the same way Rhodey is—they both get to be with the man they wanted, no compromises. There's no limit on Tony's affection, no rationing of caring and intimacy that needs to occur. 

You read that last text again. And again. And again. You keep thinking about it, about everything Rhodey's said, that you don't sleep until it's inhumanly late that night, and it's fitful. 

You wake up. You think of Bucky's soft eyes. You think of Steve talking about happiness. You think about _no rationing of intimacy_. 

You know Bucky is home. His day off. And Steve is working at the gym today. 

Bucky answers the door when you knock, and looks shocked to find you on the other side. "I, uh, thought you were gonna be food," he says as he lets you in. 

"You what?" You toss your bag right on the floor, shed your layers in one piece like snake skin and drop them on top of your bag. You'll get it later. This is more important. 

"My, uh, delivery order." Bucky reaches to tuck hair he doesn't have anymore behind his ear, because a nervous tic doesn't always take note of haircuts. "Steve isn't home." 

"I know." You straight your shirt out over your hips, and look at Bucky. "I'm here to see you." 

"Me?" He doesn't even have a quip ready. He's so off-guard. "I, uh—I'm doing some stuff, so—" 

"You're not doing a damn thing, Barnes, you're just waiting on your fucking Seamless order on your day off, and I bet you've got a paused game waiting for you in the living room." You peek around the corner of the end of the entryway, and yep, you got him pinned on that one, too. 

"Alright, you got me." Bucky huffs, blowing the front of his hair around. "What do you want from me?" 

Get it over with, you told yourself on the way over. Do it fast. "The truth," you say. 

"About chemtrails?" he asks, because even in a moment like this, he can't stop himself from being a little shit. 

You backhand him lightly across the shoulder, taking a deep breath. "What did Steve mean when he told me you said you _wanted_ me?" 

Any jokes Bucky might have had don't come out now, probably punched out with the rest of his air. He looks at you with huge eyes. "He—Steve what?" 

If you try to explain it, you'll lose your nerve _and_ the topic. "Answer me, Bucky." 

"I, uh—why was he—?" 

"What did you mean?" You take a step closer to Bucky, and when he stumbles backward, you take another. 

"Jesus, Sam, what's to ask about?" Bucky finally snaps. "It's pretty straightforward, isn't it? You're fucking gorgeous, I like you, I like being around you, I feel like—" He only stops to take a breath, which isn't long enough for you to even try to start answering. "I feel like I can trust you. So yeah, I _want_ you." He's so damn red. 

If you expected anything, it wasn't all of that. You're stunned into silence, and you can feel that your mouth is hanging open but you can't quite muster the brain power to shut it. 

"I just—I didn't want to hurt Steve. That's why I've been, you know." Bucky wiggles his fingers. 

"A, uh, distant asshole?" you say, finishing the sentence once you've got your wits back. 

"Yeah, that." Bucky sighs, giving you a rueful little smirk. "I'm guessing Steve told you he wanted to try that polyamory stuff." 

"Something like that." Well, you didn't say _all_ your wits were back. 

Bucky takes his own step closer. This close you can practically see every nerve jangling in his body, like the way his hand shakes even when he tries to steady it by putting it on his hip. 

"So," he says, with an anxious lick of his lips and a strangled little giggle, "dinner and a movie?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on some level i feel like the cliffhanger is stupid but, you know, who doesn't love cliffhangers? SEE YOU NEXT WEEK


	12. bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dates, probably

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe how long this got

Sam says no. 

Specifically, he says no to your—you swear to god, joking—suggestion that you take him out to Olive Garden for this very first date. Once you convince him you didn't mean it, you suggest 67 Burger, but he shoots that down, too. 

"Well, where do you wanna go then?" you ask, because if you just focus on the specifics, you won't think too hard about how this is happening, this is really _happening_. That the stars aligned, or something like that, and somehow you're getting to ask Sam Wilson out on a date without stabbing your best friend in his considerable back. 

Of course, this wasn't quite what you expected. Movies and TV always made it seem like confessions on that level always devolve into kissing and sex, and while you're old enough to conceptually know better, part of you held out some kind of hope. It's not like you've ever had such a dramatic beginning to a relationship before. Before your amputation, your relationships were the kind that lasted a couple months, if that, a little bit of emotion attached to a little more sex, and not much else. 

Instead of the whirlwind of passion and physicality promised by Hollywood, what you get is Sam sitting, as always, on the other end of the couch from you. There's no more touching than usual, no less space between you and him. As if he can't believe this is happening, either. Maybe it really isn't. Maybe this is a doomed endeavor. 

"I just wanna go to someplace small, is all, and 67 Burger can get so damn crowded, both of them," Sam says, drumming one set of fingers on his kneecap. He's curled up on the couch now that his shoes are off, and you're buzzing with the desire to get closer to him. You just don't know if you can yet. Another point in favor of this all not being real. "I know a spot not far off from Pratt," he says. "It's cash only, but I've been there after modeling work and it's really good." 

"Okay, uh, there then." You consider the neighborhood. "BAM's over there, right? They play movies there." 

"Oh yeah? You're gonna take me out for margaritas and then take me to an arthouse movie at BAM?" The smile that curls one side of Sam's face makes your chest tight, as much as the way he rests his fingertips against the side of his neck. A smile, a gesture, just for you. "See, now that's a classy date." 

"I guess I have to start thinking classy all the time, then, if I'm gonna date you," you reply, and you're so grateful for how smooth that comes out. Not smooth as in suave, but smooth as in without stuttering. 

That doesn't start an evening of romance either, though. Sam pulls out his phone to show you where this place is, but the dip in the couch and the angle you're both sitting at makes it hard for you to look, so he scoots over to sit next to you without touching. There's a pause where he looks at you, but also doesn't look at you, and then suddenly Sam is pillowing himself against the left side of your body, his neck supported by the front of your stump. Your pulse feels like it's out of control, and Sam must feel it, but if he does there's no sign, as much as there's no sign that he's grossed out by your stump, even covered in a T-shirt sleeve. 

When he's done showing you the restaurant, he pulls up BAM's current movie selection, staying just where he is. There's a certain stiffness to him, like he might be as unsure as you are, but at least he's trying. So you slump down a little more, reach over to point at his screen from time to time, and since you have to reach across yourself, too, to do it Sam ends up leaned over your lap. It feels comfortable. It feels good. 

It's also how Steve finds you when he gets home from work. You're so engrossed in the videos Sam keeps showing you on his phone that even the sound of the front door doesn't break you out of it. It doesn't help that Steve tends to close the front door like he's entering a sleeping baby's room, rather than slamming it shut like everyone else on the planet does. 

Steve comes into the living room, his face unreadable, and you and Sam spring apart. Or well, you try to, but it's more of a muddle of limbs pushing at each other and failing at their task spectacularly. The couch is just old and funny-shaped, when it comes down to it. When Sam finally achieves some success at getting away from you, Steve holds up his hands. 

"No, no! You don't—you don't have to do that. Hey." He approaches the couch, and while a frozen Sam and frozen you watch him in near-horror, he gently pushes the two of you back together until Sam falls against you. Sam looks stunned, and you can feel your patented toad face stretching your face. 

"Remember how this was my idea?" Steve says. You can hear that extra touch of confidence in his voice that means he's trying too hard, but you wonder if Sam is as attuned yet. "I want everyone to be happy." 

You wonder if that includes Steve. 

You don't know what to do with yourself now that Steve is here. You know, the Boyfriend with a capital B. Sam is happy to see him, but what are you supposed to do? Go into your room or outside until Sam gets tired of him? Sit on one side of Sam while Steve sits on the other, and both of you cuddle him? You can't even begin to parse that visual. Jesus. No. 

Instead, Steve gives Sam a peck on the lips, says something about being really tired after work, and goes into his own bedroom. You kind of hate that he winks at you on his way there. Then music starts wafting out from behind his closed door, soft enough that when you go back to the couch you can't hear it, but loud enough that Steve probably can't hear anything in the living room. He's really leaving you alone with Sam, good and proper. 

It still feels weird, knowing Steve is right there. But you pick up the remote, and turn on the TV, and that much feels familiar with Sam here. He's slow this time in finding his place on your body, but this time you're also ready for him, and his head nestles against your chest, a hand splayed over the top of your belly. The back of your brain doesn't like that last one, because that's the kind of place on your body that reminds people real quick that you're unattractive, but Sam seems oblivious. (Or considerate. That's possible too, knowing Sam.) You mumble back and forth about a movie, and you end up watching Metropolis on some backalley-looking streaming site because Sam says he remembers he watched it when it was new, but he couldn't remember much about it. 

Something like a third of the way into the movie, Sam flexes his hand gently, fingers stroking in place. Does he know he's doing it? Is he touching you like this on purpose? You shiver and put your hand over Sam's, stilling it and holding it in the same gesture. This is as brave as you are right now. 

At the end of the movie, Steve dips out of his room to visit the bathroom, and Sam sits up to look at his phone and say it's time for him to go home. By the time he's got his outerwear put back together, Steve is back in the living room to give his boyfriend a goodbye kiss. It kind of makes you feel like you were just borrowing Sam, as much as you know Sam is not a thing to be borrowed. 

Steve doesn't mention any of it after Sam leaves. He just starts banging around in the kitchen, which is a surefire way to get everything else off your mind as you pluck cooking implements out of his hands and yell him out of the room. He brought home store-bought pierogis, which is fine by you; all you have to do is fry them. You cook up a side of spinach with garlic and chopped walnuts, and you and Steve eat in silence on the couch, you with your little wheely table pulled up. Over dishes Steve just talks about his day at work, as if he didn't just sign off on two hours of his boyfriend cuddling with his best friend. 

In fact, Steve doesn't talk about any of it, at all, except to ask the night before your date with Sam if tomorrow is, in fact, your date with Sam, and you confirm with a stiff nod. You want to ask if he's really okay with this, but it feels like a dangerous move in a way you can't explain. 

On your day off, knowing your date starts at 5 when you're supposed to meet Sam at the restaurant, you spend hours agonizing over what to wear. Suddenly you regret not taking Sam up on his offer to find you nicer clothes to wear, because you seriously can't wear any of this to meet Sam. You can't believe he even agreed to this when you're such a disgusting slob with a drawerful of sweatpants and another drawer crammed full of faded, stretched out, stained jeans with holes in the crotch or thighs. You start frantically googling where you might grab an emergency date outfit at your size. 

In the end you walk out of a store humiliatingly named Casual Men XXL, with a bag of your old clothes clutched under your arm. The black button down shirt has little white diamond outlines on it, which keeps you from looking like some kind of mafia reject. The jeans aren't anything to write home about, but they're clean, they fit, and they don't have any of the warping or threadbare spots associated with denim having to exist around you. The shoes you were already wearing, but they're a pair of Converses you bought and then never wore because they're made for people with banana feet and not you, but they look better than anything else you own. You end up throwing the bag of your old clothes in the garbage on your way to the restaurant. 

Sam is, predictably, completely put together. You bet he didn't agonize about his outfit, from his porkpie hat to his wine red skinny corduroys to his chelsea boots. You think that's what they're called, anyway. The short ones with the elastic on the sides. Fuck, you should just turn back now and shop for a different outfit. Except, of course, this is as good as it gets for a dude as big as you, so you guess you're going to have to settle. You guess Sam's going to have to settle, more realistically. 

"I see you decided to show up," Sam says when he spots you approaching. He says it with a smirk, which is how you know he's kidding, but really, it's more a miracle that _he_ showed up. 

"I had to really think about it," you reply, and then you wonder if _he_ can figure out you're kidding. Because you are, you absolutely are. "But I dragged my ass out of the swamp and even used conditioner for the second time in my life." 

"I'm honored," Sam snorts, and he gestures toward the door of the restaurant. "You wanna get these coats off?" 

Inside the tiny colorful restaurant, you make Sam take the seat against the wall because you literally cannot fit between the tables, even though your ass and your big puffy coat would fit better on the banquette seating. You both take off your outerwear, and underneath Sam is wearing a black button down too, except his is completely sheer. 

Sam catches you looking, and laughs as he glances away, then back at you. "What?" he asks. "Too daring?" He gestures at the shirt, and the movement only calls more attention to the fact that you can see his nipples. 

"For anyone but you," you say, trying to laugh the same way. You can feel your face betraying you, though. 

Thank god Sam is so nice to you now. "Well, you look nice, anyway." He points at your shirt with his chin. "Didn't even know something that nice could exist in a swamp." 

A swamp—oh, right. The joke you made just a few minutes ago. 

"Ogres have their ways," you say, right as the waitress approaches. Which is good, because you actually regret suddenly referring to yourself as basically Shrek. 

When she leaves with your orders of food and alcohol, she apparently takes your powers of conversation with her. You're left staring at Sam, wishing you had two hands just so you could twiddle your stupid fucking thumbs. 

Sam clears his throat. "This feels weird, doesn't it?" 

"Is it bad-weird for you?" That's it. He probably wants to leave. He's probably sorry he agreed to this mess, especially when you're the messiest part of it. 

He bites his lip, pulling it through his teeth. It looks like he put on lip balm before you got here. "No, not bad-weird. I'm... I'm glad to be here." He reaches for you across the little table, and you put your hand in his. His palms are soft, and your hand feels heavy. "I wouldn't have said yes if I didn't want to come, you know. Remember how I exist independently of you and Steve and all your bullshit?" 

"Listen, we're getting better." And you are, because you haven't sent Steve a single text about your whereabouts in what feels like a pretty damn long time. Sam is still holding your hand. You squeeze his. "Although he's not talking to me about any of—" You gesture back and forth between you and Sam. "—Any of this." 

Sam bites his lip again. "It's weird, because this was all his idea, but it feels like he's faking being into it, sometimes. You get that from him?" 

"Yeah," you say, nodding. "It feels like I can't really poke at it too much, though, so I just..." You shrug. "Leave it alone. And enjoy getting to come out here with you." 

Sam shakes his head, chuckling. "You called me gorgeous, you know." 

"Because it's true," you say, although it comes out like a mutter and you didn't mean it that way. 

"Is that the only reason you like me?" Sam lets go of your hand, but it's because your drinks are here and there's only so much space on the table. 

"Don't tell me Sam Wilson fishes for compliments." 

"I'm an honest bitch. I'll get compliments any way I know how," Sam says, grinning. It makes your chest tight, still, when Sam smiles just for you. 

"Really, I don't even know why you like _me_ ," you say, and you arch your brows, hoping Sam gets the joke. You can fish, too. 

He doesn't, though. Sam looks honest to god thoughtful taking a sip of his margarita in its tall glass. "A lot of reasons," he says. "Not just because you're kinda cute, either." 

"Oh, kinda cute?" you say, as if that's an insult. Nobody's called you any kind of cute in a solid half decade, so really, you'll take even _kinda_ cute. 

"Yeah, you know, for a dude who spends so much time in sweats and faded T-shirts." Sam reaches over the table and touches a finger to the topmost buttoned button on your shirt. "You graduate to the full cute when you pull your shit together." 

You know that's not true. You know you're ugly. But it's endearing that Sam will tell you otherwise. You remember when he touched you, fingers brushing the hair at the back of your neck, and the way he looked at you before he panicked. Soft eyes, soft mouth, like he was looking at something worthwhile. You like to remember that moment a lot, actually. 

"So you're saying I wouldn't be cute to you at all on some early morning? I gotta have clothes on to be cute?" It all comes out before you can stop it, mostly because your brain thought it'd be funny and you agreed, but you didn't agree that Sam should _hear_ it. Sam is visibly flustered, which is pretty rich given what you've sometimes heard coming from Steve's room on days when they thought you were passed out in your own room. 

He recovers pretty quick, though. "We'll have to find out, won't we?" he says with a wicked grin, and now it's you who's flustered, because it was a joke, it was a joke, and you can't actually fathom waking up next to Sam with no clothes on. 

It's such a godsend that the food arrives so quick. Now you don't have to look Sam in the eye while you consider Sam with no clothes on, and consider how you shouldn't consider that, or should you? Is it acceptable if you're on a date? Is it expected? Were you like this six years ago? Is the fact that his sheer shirt makes it easier to picture a factor in all this? 

Instead you and Sam talk about your high school days, with Sam telling you more about what it was like to be basically the only anime fan he knew in the mid-90s. It's weird, you admit to him, because here in this restaurant the age difference feels negligible, but Bucky didn't hit high school until 1998, by which time Sam was already almost done with college. Sam asks if it bothers you to date such an old man. You tell him only if it bothers him to date such a fat man, but that one doesn't make him laugh. 

"Sorry, uh." You push your fork through your black beans without actually picking any up. "That's one of those things you can't really say anything to, huh?" 

"Not really, no," Sam says with a twitch of a smile, before finishing off his margarita. "I mean, you know I find you attractive, right?" 

"Is that the margarita talking?" Shit, you're doing it again. Just let him talk. Sam's shaking his head but at least he's ignoring your dummy outburst. 

"Don't tell me your dumb ass wants me to make a list," Sam says, setting his glass aside. 

"I might not believe you, otherwise," your mouth says, and at least it's not as dumb as anything else you've said. 

Another shake of Sam's head, but he's laughing. "Well, for one, your hair now that someone's actually done anything with it. That coif it gets when you pull at it is cute." 

"I don't know what a coif is," you lie. "But if you like it I'll do it more." 

"What you've got going on right now, stupid," Sam says, and he gets up just enough to put his fingers in your hair and pull them up. It's also when you realize he's a little tipsy. You help guide him back into his seat so he doesn't flip his plate into his lap, and Sam laughs. 

"Sam, are you a lightweight?" 

"Who, me? No, they just made me a ridiculously strong drink," Sam snorts, and he does look a little more sober sitting down, at least. "Where was I?" 

"Something about how I'm stupid," you say, and Sam rolls his eyes. 

"I think what I _was_ gonna say was something about your eyes, or your shoulders, but if you're gonna be a donkey about it I'm not gonna say shit," Sam says. He looks down at his plate and groans. "I'm about to get this boxed up, though, this is too much food for one Sam." 

You look at your plate in turn, with its two bites of rice and beans left, and sigh. Of course you ate more than anyone else would. Sam sees you looking but he doesn't know why, and he says, "You want the rest of mine?" 

You shake your head, despite knowing full well you'd love to clean that plate. Instead you just finish off yours while Sam hails the waitress and asks for a box and the check. The box comes quick, and while Sam is still busy getting every single grain of rice off his plate and into styrofoam, you snag the check and press it back into the waitress's hand with money before Sam even notices. You've still got money squirreled away from your days as Boggy Barnes. You're putting your coat back on when Sam asks the waitress why the check never came, and he gives you this look that's a whole lot of things bunched up together when she tells him you already paid it. Things like amusement, and anger that you're pretty sure is fake, and something else. 

Sam follows you out once his coat is on, his box of leftovers swinging in a plastic bag. "You know," he says as you lean up against the black iron fence to the side of the restaurant, right where people throw out their big garbage bags. "I never finished my list." 

"I never even gave you one, to be fair," you say, because you think you have to be a little more ready to pick that thread up again. 

"Alright then." Sam faces you, hands shoved in his pockets, and he steps right into your personal space. "List me." 

"What, like, now?" You think about Sam taking one more step to be pressed up against you and you think about what he looks like sitting next to Steve, and how happy Steve looks when he's with Sam. You think about the weight of Sam's body on yours anyway. Steve should kill you. Nobody does this who isn't Tony Stark, and nobody is Tony Stark for a reason. 

"What, do I have to raincheck until the next date?" Sam flutters his eyelashes and he thinks he's being funny, you bet, but it just reminds you of how long those lashes are. 

"It's not like I have it rehearsed," you say, and nod toward Fulton. "We should start moving toward BAM, though." 

Sam walks next to you, and you think some more. This time, you think about the pros and cons of holding his hand while you walk. Your hands keep bumping into each other. Jesus fuck, what are you, some nervous preteen? On the other hand—ha, ha—Sam is Steve's boyfriend. You shouldn't. No preteen has _that_ complication on their plate. 

Fuck it. You take his hand. He squeezes it back and lets you, even swinging your hands back and forth a little. Steve doesn't drop out of the clouds to smite you. The world doesn't end. It's fine. 

"I'm waiting," Sam says as you walk down Fulton, but there's a little waver in his voice, and you realize all your hemming and hawing looks less like personal insecurity and more like disinterest. Which makes no damn sense, but you of all people know how easy it is to fall into self doubt at the slightest provocation. 

"Well," you start, and this is so much easier not having to look directly at Sam, "I already said you're gorgeous, right?" 

"Right." You look at Sam from the corner of your eye and he's smiling, just a little bit. So far, so good. 

"Your eyes are pretty, your nose is cute, and your lips..." You purse yours. "Well, we're in public, so I can't say." 

Sam elbows you, cackling. "Shut the fuck up. Nasty." 

"I'm here to balance out all of Steve's goodness," you say. "I bring all the nasty." 

"Oh, Steve has his own brand of nasty, believe me," Sam says with another little chortle. 

"Anyway, if I can't talk about your lips in public, I _definitely_ can't talk about your ass," you continue, which earns you another sharp elbow. 

"So what, it's all physical?" Sam wants to know. 

"Well, someone's gotta be the pretty one." 

"Bucky." 

You like it when he says your name. "Don't you already know you're funny, Sam? Smart, funny, thoughtful. You don't need to hear it from me. You're just fishing for compliments again." 

"I might be." He walks a little closer to make room for someone walking in the opposite direction, bumps your shoulder with his. "Tell me again." 

"I'm gonna spoil you if I do." 

BAM isn't too far. The conversation gets cut off again when you enter the building. Sam runs off to the bathroom and you buy the tickets while he's gone, because you decided before you even met up with Sam that you were going to pay for everything. By the time Sam gets back you've even got concessions, and Sam shakes his head. He says you can't talk about not wanting to spoil him and then pull shit like this. 

In the dark of the theater Sam pushes up the armrest between you, which you take as your cue to put your arm around him, let him lean into you. It means you can't eat any of the concessions you just spent money on, which Sam isn't even going to eat because you forgot he's already full on quesadillas and alcohol, but your body feels like it's buzzing everywhere he touches you. You don't realize you're tracing your fingers gently down his side, over and over, until it makes him squirm and whisper that that tickles. 

"BAM needs to step their game up," Sam says as you exit the theater. He put all the uneaten concessions in the bag with his leftovers box. "That was just alright." 

You thought it was more than just alright, but tonight you don't care enough to argue it. You let Sam talk, picking the movie apart while still giving it dues where he thought it was deserved. You like hearing him deconstruct media. 

Outside the theater it's like that one conversation was just waiting for you, like a parked car. It's already dark out, and Sam pulls you over to the wall of the theater building. He's sobered up now, but night provides its own kind of drunkenness, a suppressing of inhibitions. 

"You believe me yet that you're cute?" Sam asks. He tugs at the zipper to your coat, pulling it up and down in little jerks. 

"Nah. I'll never be cute," you say, mostly just to set Sam up. 

"With these shoulders?" Sam says, and he runs his hands up the sleeves of your coat to your shoulders, the empty sleeve tucked into a pocket bending under the pressure. 

"Any ugly lunk can work out," you say, and Sam snorts, dropping his hands. 

"With those eyes? With these lashes?" Sam tries, and well, you'll give him that one. Nat always said you had big baby eyes. 

"I think you hit the end of the list with that, though," you say. 

"No, I think I can find one more thing, at least," Sam insists. "Come down here and help me look for it." 

"What, like a contact on the ground?" you say, but you lean forward anyway, and suddenly—

"Only if you want it," Sam whispers, his lips brushing yours with every word. 

Of course you want it. What kind of question is that? And Sam wants it, and Steve said you could want it, more or less. Yes, you want it. 

So you kiss Sam. 

You kiss Sam against the wall, bodies pressing as he parts his lips for you. You haven't kissed anyone in years but you kind of remember what to do, and your body remembers more, remembers what it wants out of this. You remember that tongues do this, lips do that. You remember that hands go here. Hand, singular, in your case, sliding down Sam's lower back to cup at his ass, maybe too fast but it's what you remember. You start to take your hand back, because yeah, maybe it's too much, but Sam puts his own hand over yours, a silent approval of the way you massage his ass. 

It doesn't last that long. This still isn't Hollywood. Sam doesn't need Hollywood to be breathtaking, though, his already full lips kiss-swollen and even prettier. There's no way to tell on either of you in the dimness of the street light, especially with Sam in shadow, but you can still tell he's flushed by the way his eyes are hooded, by the way he breathes, deep and heaving and a little shaky. You're trying not to be hard. You can feel Sam already kind of is. 

What if you went back to Bed Stuy with Sam? What if Sam came back with you? What if you laid him out on top of the covers to kiss him there, instead, where you can kiss more than just his mouth? What if you—

That's more than handholding, though. You still don't know that you believe that Steve's okay with all this. Sam's leg slips away from where he wrapped it around the back of yours, and you think he might be thinking the same. 

"This is some crazy shit," Sam laughs, but he doesn't step back yet. "Some pinch me because I _must_ be dreaming shit." 

"I know, I'm a real nightmare." You wonder if kissing Sam again would at least be alright. If Steve is somehow watching, he's already let it happen once, so surely he won't kill you for a round two. Maybe you should stop thinking about Steve so damn much. 

"If you're a nightmare, I'm cool with it." Sam runs fingers along your soft jawline and its shadowy stubble, and through the short soft hair behind your ears. "Damn sight better than any of my usual nightmares, that's for sure." 

"Pretty low bar to clear," you say, but you're already leaning in, and so does Sam, and you're kissing again. This time you let him take the lead, considering how much more practice he has than you. Sam is a more sophisticated kisser than you, and you can't say how that makes sense but it's in the way he doesn't just tongue at you like a horny college kid, which was when you last did most of your kissing. He skims your whole body with his hands, even the parts you hate, and it makes you hate them less in that moment. He nips at your lower lip when you're too aggressive, reminds you wordlessly to ease up. And fuck, this was a mistake, because you can't think fucking straight, you just want to take Sam home and tear his clothes off, and—

You know, where Steve can see. 

Ah, fuck. You break the kiss, panting, and you'd sag against Sam if you didn't know that would just crush him. 

"Should probably call it a night," you say between breaths, "before this gets too weird." 

For a second you're afraid Sam will take it the wrong way, because that's been the nature of your goddamn relationship so far, but he nods as he chuckles. "I know what you mean. Yeah." 

You escort Sam to his train, which is back over by the restaurant, even though yours is right around the corner from the theater. He gives you a tame peck on the cheek for a goodbye, but even that feels brave. You wave like a little kid at Sam's back until he disappears at the bottom of the stairs, then head back to Atlantic. 

The whole ride home your whole body feels electric, phantom memories of where Sam touched you still dancing across your skin. Your lips feel almost numb, except the breeze from the door opening at Prospect feels like almost too much against them. You climb the steps in your building and you almost fall on your face because you unthinkingly put your foot right in the middle of that one step that's too worn to really use—something you normally avoid—and it doesn't matter. You feel so damn good. 

Steve pops up from the couch like an anxious dog, and you wonder if he was waiting there for you. "How was it? Did you have fun? Was it good?" he asks, one question after another with no breath in between. 

"Uh, yeah," you say as you make your slow way out of your coat. Steve scurries into the entryway and practically yanks the armless side of your coat off, which is helpful if a little violent in the way it halfway spins you around. "Jesus, Steve!" 

"Just helping out," he says, pulling your coat the rest of the way off to hang it up. "How's Sam? Did he have a good time? Did you have a good time?" His voice keep speeding up, and he keeps switching his weight from leg to leg, his hands only still because he keeps them planted on his hips. 

"I told you, yeah." You start toeing out of your shoes, watching Steve with a frown. This is exactly what you were afraid of. "Steve." 

"Yeah, Buck." Right leg, left leg. Right leg. He stays on the right leg so he can jiggle his left. He's like a bomb of nervous energy, and the seconds are ticking down. 

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" 

"Of course I'm okay with this. It was my idea. I orchestrated—" Steve licks his lips as he draws a circle in the air in front of him, parallel to the floor. "—I orchestrated all of this. How could I not be okay with this?" 

"Steven Grant. Buddy. Comrade. _Prieten._ " You slap your hand on Steve's vibrating shoulder, and he switches legs again. 

"Pri-what?" he asks, but you're not going to let him derail this. 

"You are the least subtle guy, sometimes, and one of those times is right now. You're freaking out so hard you're about to blow." 

"I don't know what you're talking about." He brushes off your hand, but you put it back and squeeze harder. 

"How long have I known you, punk?" 

"Long enough that only you and I call each other punk like that," Steve snorts. 

"So I've known you long enough that I can make a pretty educated guess that you sat in _one spot_ the entire time I was on a you-sanctioned date with your boyfriend, fucking _pulsating_ with anxiety-fueled fantasies about, uh—" You let go of Steve to hold your hand out palm-up, like you want him to finish the sentence. 

"You and Sam running away without saying goodbye and leaving me to be alone in Brooklyn until I die?" Steve flashes you a rueful grin as he says it, but Jesus, he was too quick with that. Your educated guess is probably more just a statement of fact. 

"Yeah, something like that." You point at the living room behind Steve. "You gonna let me into my own house or what, you brick fucking wall?" 

"Oh, uh—" Steve hops out of your way, but you're both two huge men and he has to just walk back into the living room in front of you if either of you are gonna get anywhere. You flop on the couch with a sigh, considering whether you want a beer or not. Steve sits next to you with a lot more delicacy, and this is absolutely why one side of the couch looks a lot more thrashed than the other. 

"If it makes you feel any better," you say as you finger the top button of your expensive new shirt, "I spent at least like sixty percent of my time with Sam thinking you were gonna jump out of the sky and kill me just for holding his hand or something." 

Steve snorts and looks away, but you got him to smile. "I told you, this was my idea." 

"You've had plenty of dumb, self-destructive ideas before, Steve. Are you really gonna sit there and tell me you only make good decisions?" Actually, a beer sounds great. One for you, and one for Steve, who really needs two or three. You heave yourself back onto your feet to head into the kitchen. 

"Well, uh—" Steve gets up to follow you, and stands in the doorway while he watches you rifle through the selection of beers at the bottom of the fridge door. "I'm not saying that. I'm just saying—yeah, the APA—I thought about this a lot. Tony seemed pretty thrilled with himself at the party when he was talking about being in a relationship with two people, and both those two people looked well-adjusted and happy, too." 

"So what you're saying is you're basing all of this on like, five minutes of interaction with some rich people you barely know." You hand Steve the bottle of his choice, and pick yourself a sweet potato stout you bought as a novelty. If you bought it you might as well drink it. 

"I mean, Rhodey is Sam's best friend," Steve says as he pops the cap on his bottle and passes you the opener. "They're not strangers." 

"You know, we don't _have_ to do this just because you feel some kind of weird obligation you got from god knows where." You lean back against the counter as you kick the fridge door shut, and take a swig from your bottle. 

Steve just stares at you, clutching his bottle with whitening knuckles, and you put your beer down. You don't know which part of that, exactly, set him off but here comes _something_. 

"There's no _obligation_ , Bucky. I chose this because it's the best solution. This is the way everyone gets to be happy, because otherwise, _otherwise_ , I just get to watch my best friend and my boyfriend pining after each other until I give up playing second fiddle and just let Sam break up with me already!" 

The stunned silence that follows belongs to both of you. Steve scrubs his hand up and down his red face a couple times, and takes a hard pull from his beer. "Sorry. Sorry. Jesus. Sorry." 

"No, uh. Nothing to be sorry about." You sip at your beer, too, though not nearly as aggressively. "It's, uh—you know I'd never do that to you, right?" 

"I know." Terse. He knows. 

"Plus," you add, taking a little step his way, "there's no way Sam would give up a literal Adonis just to be with a scrub like me. Or did you forget I threw a charger at his face?" 

"No one could forget that you threw a charger at his face," Steve snorts, shaking his head. "Sorry, Buck, I'm being an asshole." 

"Nah." You bump your shoulder into his. "That's my job, remember? I won't let you steal my throne." 

Steve grins. "We'll see about that. Pretty sure I'm stronger than you." 

"I could bench you with one arm!" 

"You only _have_ one arm." 

"That's what I'm saying." 

There's no more tension the rest of the night, and you and Steve settle into your usual banter, even when you retire to your separate rooms and alternate between yelling and texting. Sam texts you that he had fun, and then sends you some ideas for your next date. 

Your next date. 

That one's Steve-sanctioned, too. This time you and Sam go to Manhattan, because Sam won some kind of ticket lottery for the ballet, and that seems like kind of a weird date for two men over 30, you think, until you're actually in the theater. The seats are real high up, but even from the nosebleeds you can tell you actually kind of love watching a story unfold like this. 

After the show, you go for Japanese food a couple avenues over from Lincoln Center, and you and Sam practically wrestle for the check when it arrives. You win again, your debit card slapping against the plastic of the check tray right before you hand it off to a passing waiter. Sam huffs about it a little, so you tell him to get dessert, then. You wander up Amsterdam until he pulls you into a chocolate boutique, of course, and he makes you stand ten feet away while he pays for the hot chocolate and warmed cookies, lest you jump in with your card at the last second. 

The hot chocolate makes Sam's kisses sweeter, before you put him on the train for the night. 

You try not to think about Sam when you're falling asleep, because if you do then you have to jack off, like you _have_ to, and then you have to do it with the quiet of your teenage years. Steve seems a lot more relaxed about this whole setup since your little talk, but you don't think he needs to know about it if you get off to the idea of Sam letting you suck his dick. 

The third date is in Brooklyn again. Another restaurant, this one in Sam's neighborhood, which Sam says does some damn good fried pickles, and he's right. You force yourself to not think about how close Sam's apartment is, how it would only take a short walk and then maybe your fantasy of blowing Sam might become reality. You fail at not thinking about it, actually, but you still don't go, and this time it's Sam who escorts you to the train after another make out session in a shadowy corner on the street. You're so glad your coat is long enough to cover up how that made you feel. 

On a day when you're home from work before Steve, you stand naked in your room, cataloging your body in the dirty full-length mirror that hangs off the back of your door. Standard issue ugly body, if you don't count the missing arm, which is definitely not standard. Could you show this body to Sam? Would he want to see it? Touch it? Let it touch him? 

You don't think about these things when Sam is over to see Steve. You think about them a little when Sam and Steve invite you to sit on the other side of Sam, so Sam can cuddle both his men at the same time. You watch Steve's face like a rabbit watching a fox, at first, but he doesn't seem bothered. After all, it's Sam's head in his lap, and Sam's legs hooked over yours. 

The fourth date comes the day after Thanksgiving, which you spent with your parents and Becca, and Steve spent in Harlem with Sam's family. (You would never tell your mother this, but the leftovers Steve brought home were on a whole 'nother level.) You and Sam forgot it was Black Friday, so the streets are packed in Manhattan, and so's the restaurant you picked, full of exhausted shoppers reviewing their spoils of the day. You end up grabbing a bunch of goodies to go from a bakery in Chinatown, and you mention, hey, you've got some good stuff in the fridge at your place to cook up something that _isn't_ made out of turkey. 

So Sam comes all the way back to Sheepshead Bay with you, and you cook up chicken parmesan with pappardelle and heaping piles of garlicky spinach. As you serve it you apologize for making such a lazy meal, but Sam has stars in his eyes as he looks at the plate you've made him. _Lazy who?_ he asks between bites, and he finishes his food so fast he groans a little. He wraps his arms around you when you're at the sink rinsing dishes, and when he kisses your neck you shiver with arousal. 

You still don't do more than kiss. You want to, though. You think Sam wants to, too. You can't even identify anymore what's stopping you, because it's been at least a few weeks and Steve has stopped being a feature of your thoughts when you're out with Sam. Maybe you should talk about it, like adults. Too bad you're not much of an adult. 

Sam says you're spending too much damn money on restaurants, though, and that a bitch is wined and dined _out_ already. That, and he loves it when you cook for him. So a week after Thanksgiving, Sam is over again, watching you cook in the middle of your day off. 

This time the meal is more thought out, although Sam seems to be impressed no matter what you cook. The chicken is going to be double fried in buttermilk batter, the green beans are going to be sautéed with ramp butter you froze last spring, and the macaroni and cheese you made for that one dinner with the whole gang is making a repeat appearance because you're pretty sure Sam liked it a lot. He's just gonna have to help you get it in and out of the oven. 

Of course, you're so focused on cooking you didn't really think about what you were wearing, which is to say you're in the same sweatpants and stretched-out tank top you went to sleep in. Sam's sitting on the step stool in the corner, and when you glance at him while you stir your bechamel, he's grinning at you with one fingernail between his teeth, his other hand cradling his elbow. 

"What?" you ask, putting down the wooden spoon so you can pour in a little more heavy cream. 

"Nothing," Sam says, chuckling. "I just like watching you work." 

You look down at your outfit. "What, even in my slob pajamas?" 

Sam's eyelids drop just that one important iota. "Especially in your slob pajamas." 

"What, you got some kind of slob kink?" you say, focusing on the stove again. The bechamel is thickening nicely. 

"So listen, I'm gonna say this as—as nicely as I know how," Sam says, and now you have to look at him again, because that sounds like it's going nowhere good. "Lord knows I go to bed with no draws on, because it's just more comfortable that way, but Bucky." 

"What." There goes your face, getting hot without your permission. You should slap your own face right off. 

"Every time you turn my way it's like a goddamn loaded gun being pointed at me," Sam laughs, pointing in a vaguely downward direction. 

Oh. _Oh._ Now your face has full permission to get lava hot, because that's not something you've ever thought about, because, well, because you're fucking ugly, is why. You angle your hips away from Sam, and he hops down from the step stool. 

"I didn't say that to embarrass you," he says, and he lays his body across the back of yours, hooking his chin over your left shoulder. 

"Everything embarrasses me, I'm fucking embarrassing," you mutter, although you don't stop stirring. You have too much pride as a cook to let something as dumb as your bad feelings ruin a dish. 

For a little while, Sam just stays like that, his hands flat against the backs of your shoulders and rubbing little circles there while you cook. Once you get the macaroni in the oven, you can start prep for the chicken, although you made the batter this morning before Sam arrived, just so he wouldn't be waiting for too long. And while the chicken is frying, you can cook up the green beans, and it should all be ready by the time the mac comes out. All according to plan. 

What didn't factor into your plan, ironically enough, was Sam. He moves away to let you get the cheese you shredded earlier out of the fridge, and he lets you incorporate the macaroni into everything, helps you pour the whole mixture into the casserole dish. Watches you put on the bread crumb crust, and wrap the top with tinfoil. And as you turn to him to ask for his help putting it into the oven, you instead find Sam's already at your ear. 

"You wanna go to your bed?" 

It's just a few words, said in a low voice, but you swear to god you almost faint at the sound of them. You look at Sam and his heady expression, and you can't let yourself think about this too much. Yes. You've wanted this for longer than you know. Yes. _Yes._ No, you have to _say_ it. You nod, which is close enough. 

You at least find the forethought to turn off the oven and get Sam to put the casserole dish in the fridge, but it only takes a second and then he's trotting ahead of you to your room, which is a wreck, just like you. Of course you didn't clean up, because you didn't think about the possibility of sex, because it's been off the table even when there wasn't any reason anymore. Sam lets himself into your room, and by the time you've closed the door behind you, he's already on your bed, propped up on his elbows. 

You swallow. This can't be real. 

But it is, and you feel how real it is when Sam lies all the way back and holds his arms up to beckon you, and you climb onto your bed and right between Sam's legs. You hold yourself up on your one arm over Sam, and Sam throws both his arms around your shoulders, and he's warm, he's so warm, he kisses you and he's more than warm. You know how Sam likes to be kissed by now, and you rut against him when you kiss his mouth, and when you kiss the crux of his jaw and his neck just under his ear, which is what makes him really moan. Sam's erection rubs against your lower belly, even through his jeans, and feeling it only makes you harder, hard enough that it hurts. 

Kissing like this makes your arm tired, though, and you whisper this to Sam. So he rolls you over together, gets you on bottom with his legs still straddling your lap, and he grinds his ass back against your thighs. When you kiss him again Sam's entire body is against yours, undulating and wanting, and you have to believe this is happening or you'll forget where you are. 

When you come up for air again, you push back at Sam's shoulder, and he pauses. "What, Bucky?" he asks, searching your face. 

At first the words don't come out with your lip motions, and Sam frowns even as he laughs a little. So you try again, and even though your voice is small, at least it's there. "Let me suck your dick," you say in that little voice, and you can feel Sam's dick pulse against yours. 

He nods, and presses one more quick kiss to your mouth before he slips off your body and off the bed. You take a little more time sitting up, and when you sit on the edge of the bed, Sam stands between your knees. You slide your hand up his stomach, pushing up the loose T-shirt he's wearing and crinkling its message of EAT FAST DIE YOUNG. You kiss the skin you find underneath not because you think it's something suave to do, but because it's Sam, and because you want to, and Sam pushes both his hands into your hair. When you push the shirt up higher he helps you the rest of the way, peeling the shirt off and throwing it in the corner. It lands on one of your floordrobes, and in the back of your head you hope he can find it again later. 

Sam's body is so fucking beautiful. You kiss his stomach again, letting your hand trail over one dark nipple, and Sam's grip in your hair tightens a little. That's good, too, you think. But then you fumble one-handedly at his fly, and it's a little different than undoing your own pants, a different angle, so Sam helps you with that, too. His cock has already spotted his heathered red underwear with precum, and you press another kiss to that, too, before you pull at the wide elastic band and reveal Sam's dick. 

Everything about Sam is perfect, you're pretty sure. His dick is uncut, and that perfect size that makes it pleasurable without being too much. Not that you'd know anymore, you guess, since you haven't touched a dick that wasn't your own in almost a decade, but when you look at Sam's dick you're pretty sure you know. You lick up the underside, let your tongue linger where you know the nerves grow thickest, and Sam whimpers, pulling at your hair again. 

You should probably stop him from doing that. But instead of saying anything, you swallow his cock whole, and see just how much you remember about blow jobs. 

As it turns out, they come pretty naturally to you—that, or Sam is a sensitive and responsive partner, and it's easy with him to figure out what works and what doesn't. You work his dick with your mouth and your hand together, until the angle changes because his knees are giving out. That's when you let his dick fall out of your mouth, and catch Sam with an arm under his ass. 

"I thought you were some kind of virgin, from the way you talk about yourself," Sam pants as he slowly shifts to straddle your wide lap. You're both still wearing pants, which seems wrong at this juncture. 

"I mean, maybe I could be considered re-virginified, or whatever the term is," you say, letting your arm slide up to support his lower back, instead. "Re-virginized? I haven't sucked a dick since I was 23." 

"Don't say ages," Sam says, pressing a finger against your lips. "Let's make that rule number one, how about that?" 

"Alright, old fart," you say against the finger, grinning. "I haven't sucked a dick in almost ten years, how about that?" 

"Guess it's like riding a bike, then." Sam laughs as he puts a hand to his forehead. "Speaking of which." 

"What, are you about to tell me you've got some kind of bicycle fetish?" you say, because that's easier to say than dealing with whatever Sam's about to suggest. You have some kind of inkling, anyway. 

"If you're the bicycle," Sam says, dropping his voice another coquettish octave. "How would you feel about fucking me?" 

The words bounce around your brain, freezing you up for crucial seconds of response time. You think of the fantasies you tried to suppress. Sam's body is right here, _Sam_ is right here, no fantasy as he rubs his ass in slow circles around your dick. 

"Don't feel like you have to, I mean," Sam is starting to babble, "I don't wanna push anybody—" 

But you cut him off by nodding again. You feel good about that, yeah. About fucking Sam. 

You've never done anything like this before, not even being on the receiving end, so you watch Sam wiggle out of his skinny jeans, his incredibly low-cut underwear, and you pass him the lube from your bedside drawer to watch him open himself up. 

"Take your damn clothes off," Sam whispers when he's close, and it's something else entirely to be given an order by someone with three of his own fingers buried in his ass. 

You take off the tank top. Sam's seen you topless at least once before. You can handle that much, sort of. Sort of. Your hand is shaking when you drop the shirt on the floor. 

"All of them," Sam reminds you, as he stretches out over the bed on his stomach to grab the towel he's spotted on the floor to wipe his hand of lube. His ass is like God's gift to you, round and full and right in the middle of your bed. 

All of them. Right. Pants too. You take them off quick, _like a bandaid, like a bandaid,_ you tell yourself. You kick them into the floordrobe that's more or less designated as pajamas. 

And now you're naked. 

Now you're naked, and Sam is looking at you, and Sam is beckoning you back onto the bed, Sam is pushing you onto your back. Sam is gorgeous. Sam is dark brown skin and darker nipples and an even darker cock that's dripping for you, Sam is big pretty eyes watching you and sweet lips that kiss your neck and the place between your tits. You call them your tits because they're big, not big like Steve's but big like any fat man's, even with the muscle that holds them up higher. 

Sam's hands go there, fingers dragging over your nipples, and his mouth keeps kissing down, onto your stomach even you don't like to touch. It makes you shake. You try to focus on how Sam asked for this, Sam asked for you naked and he's visibly un-disgusted— 

But nobody, not even you, has ever loved this body, this precise body with its one arm and its big gut and its fucking tits and the scars that come from being in a traffic pile-up on the Gowanus, the huge thighs, the ass that has only gotten more unremarkable the more weight you gained. Nobody has ever wanted to see or touch the stretch marks that skim your shoulders to drag their heavy claws down your stomach and hips. Not one person has ever seen the pouch of fat that exists around the base of your dick, not even you, really, because you don't look at yourself in the mirror except for the one time you did, and you remember concluding that no, Sam wouldn't want this. Nobody should want this. 

Sam is saying your name. He's been saying your name. You're so fucked up you didn't even hear him. Are you frozen up? You're frozen up. 

"Bucky," he says again, and he's not touching your body anymore, he's just cradling your face, looking at you with worry. "Are you with me?" 

"The—" You swallow, and start flailing your body toward the edge of the bed. "The stove is on, I left the oven on, I'm gonna—" 

"I watched you turn the oven off. The stove, too," Sam says, keeping a hold on your wrist. "The kitchen is fine." 

You sit back down, staring at your knees. You should put pants back on. You should put clothes back on so Sam doesn't have to look at this. 

"We don't have to do anything you don't want to," Sam says, turning your face back toward his with one crooked finger at your chin. "But just for the record, I want to." He gives you a meaningful look when he says that, and you don't know what that meaning is except you do. 

"Sorry I'm gross," you croak. 

"If you were gross," Sam says, "I wouldn't be in this bed with you. It's not just because I like your cooking, dummy. I don't get hard for a sandwich." 

"You do a little," you say, and Sam punches you lightly in the shoulder. 

"I'm trying to make you feel good about yourself and you accuse me of having some kind of food fetish," Sam says. He's laughing, though, he's not mad. "You wanna go back in the kitchen and finish that food, though? Or do you wanna keep going?" 

You look at Sam, wholly. Up and down. You don't deserve him, but he wants you, for whatever reason. Maybe he doesn't know how ugly you are. Or he just—

You're overthinking it. "Keep going," you say, looking him in the eye, steady in your gaze. 

It doesn't take much to get you hard again. Sam runs reverent fingers up the length of your dick as he applies lube to it with his other hand. "You didn't tell me you were so damn big," he says with a nervous chuckle. "I would've practiced on like, three bananas or something before I came over, if I'd known." 

"What?" 

"Let's just get down to business, how about that?" Sam says, with the rapid blinking that comes sometimes when he's embarrassed himself. 

"To defeat the Huns?" 

"Bucky, I swear to god," Sam grumbles as he throws his leg over your hips. His dick keeps sliding against the bottom of your belly as he lines himself up. 

"Wait, should I have grabbed a—?" _Condom_ , you were going to say, but then Sam has the tip of your dick inside him, and he's sliding down, inch by slow inch. Sweat breaks out on his temples, and you put your hand on his hip, slide it up until you're pulling him down by the shoulder. You kiss him as he sinks down further, keep your hips still even though _fuck_ , he feels so good. Sam has to set the pace. 

When he's got all of you in him, Sam lets out a huge breath, like _whew,_ like he just ran a race. "You look big, but you feel bigger," he says, giving you a breathy little smile. "Damn, Bucky." 

"Sorry?" you say, shrugging because you don't know if you're supposed to apologize or not. Is big good for Sam? Too much? 

"No sorry here," Sam says, and he's kissing you again. God, you love kissing Sam. 

Sam starts off slow, trembling as he fucks himself on your dick. He mumbles against your mouth about how good you feel, how full he feels, and it makes you twitch inside him. He doesn't stay slow for long, though, and he cracks some joke about being a tried and true bottom as he starts moving so fast he's practically bouncing on your hips. You start moving, too, and it makes Sam yelp when you thrust your hips up in time to meet his. 

You don't know, in this moment, why you waited so long to do this. It feels so good. Sam feels so good. Sam makes _you_ feel so good, Sam makes you not hate yourself because you make _him_ feel so good, if the way he throws his head back and jerks himself off is any indication. You'd help him but you have to keep your only hand on his hips to help him stay on your dick. He comes before you, long streams of cum across your chest and belly as he groans. Some of it hits your lips, and Sam looks at you with orgasm-laden eyes right then, and then you're coming, too, deep into Sam's ass as you pull his hips flush with yours. 

Sam stays on your softening dick as he reaches over the side of the bed for that one towel, and wipes the semen off your body with an embarrassed laugh so he can lay down on you. You wrap your arm around him, and you'd be content to stay like that, honestly, except a few minutes later you can feel your own cum dripping back out of Sam and onto your thighs, and you really don't need that on your sheets. Sam agrees as you both roll off the bed, and Sam waddle-jogs to the bathroom to clean up first. 

Because you still have that cook pride you mentioned before, once you're both clean you turn the oven back on and get the macaroni dish into it so you can start on the fried chicken. When the food is finished Sam digs in with huge gusto, but in the middle of the meal he says, face practically split with a wicked grin, "At least now I can name something I like about you more than your cooking." 

Steve gets home while Sam is still over, and even with everything that's happened today, it's still a new level of unreal when Sam stays with his legs in your lap to pull Steve down and give him a kiss hello. 

Steve looks at the pair of you for a moment, really _looks_ with hard eyes, and you can see the exact moment realization dawns. The smile that comes next is kind of an awkward rictus, and he excuses himself to the kitchen. 

Sam pulls his legs off you, and gets up to follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more to go!!! i made myself late for a social thing writing this lmao so that's all for now bYE


	13. sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is the end, my friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought this would be done wednesday night but... it's here now. 7k and i hope you like it

Steve is bad at pretending he wants to be somewhere he doesn't. You find him opening cabinets at random, trying to seem really interested in Bucky's collection of spices or the mismatched plates or the tupperware lids that almost fall out on him. Nervous energy radiates off him so much you can practically see it. 

"Steve," you say, as he opens the fridge just to shut it again. 

"Yeah, Sam." When he's actually distracted he always responds with _yeah, babe_ , but he's faking and he's self conscious. 

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothing's wrong." He opens the fridge a second time, leans down and selects a beer. Then he puts the beer down and picks up a different beer. And he does it again. "I'm just tired from work." 

"Uh huh. Which is why you're acting like a lunatic in here, right?" You cross your arms, watching Steve fumble a beer bottle and drop it right back into the bottom shelf. One crisis averted, at least. 

"I'm not acting like anything," Steve says, finally straightening and facing you as he shuts the fridge door again, this time a little too hard, and you can hear the jars in the door shelves jingling. "Can I decompress a little after a shift without the interrogation, Sam? It's not like you don't already have company." 

You pause, putting one hand up. "Interrogation?" you repeat, frowning. 

Steve sighs, running his hand through his hair, then again, then turning back toward the fridge. This time when he opens it, he grabs a beer bottle at random and actually takes it. "Sorry. I don't—I'm being an asshole. A lot, lately." 

You chew your lip, watching him paw through the junk drawer for a bottle opener. He's not really wrong, but you don't know how productive it really is to tell him that. "What's up with you, Steve?" 

Steve has the bottle open but he just turns the bottle in circles in both hands, looking down at it instead of at you. "I don't know," he says in a small voice, and you know he's lying. He's practically burning alive with whatever feelings he's feeling. 

"Tell me the truth." That's all you ever ask of Steve and Bucky. 

He still won't look up. Or he can't. He keeps slumping further down the wall of the kitchen, like this conversation is sapping all his energy. You pluck the beer from his hands, take a swig and put it down on the counter before you step between his thighs. "Steve." 

"Yeah, babe." 

Well, that's your Steve, at least. He finally looks up when you just stand in expectant silence, even shuffles his stance so he's not quite so far down the wall. 

"The truth, remember? Tell me what's going on with you." 

Steve sighs. "You had sex with Bucky?" 

Just like the very first time you ever talked with him, and every time since. From vague and unsure to straight to the damn point. Well, you did ask. You nod. 

"How was it?" 

"What do you mean, how was it, nosy?" you laugh, flicking him gently on the end of his long nose. "That's between me and him." You consider, especially, how mortified Bucky would be if you discussed his body issues with his best friend. 

But Steve gives you this sad smile, and shakes his head. "You know I've known Bucky a long time, right?" 

"Uh, yes." You decide that physical comfort is never out of place, and lean your body against Steve's all the way, folding your arms across his collarbone so you can rest your chin on your crossed wrists. Then you think better of it, keeping your chin on just your one wrist so your other hand can make trails through the short blond hair at Steve's temple. His mouth was already open with a word on its way out, and now he looks distracted, frowning at himself. 

"So at this point, uh, I know what you get when you sleep with Bucky Barnes," Steve says, although at least his smile now is less sad and more kind of sheepish. "Not because I meant to see it!" he hurries to inform you, which makes you laugh. "Just Bucky gets drunk, or high, and—" 

"I get the idea," you say, rubbing your thumb along Steve's cheekbone. "What's your point?" 

Steve looks at you like you're asking him to solve two plus two, and you stand back up. His face contorts, his face reddening a shade a second as he gestures out at the living room, and at you, and at his own crotch. "You know—you just—it's just—" 

"It's just what, Steve?" You stay close to him, resting your hands on his hips. 

"I feel stupid saying it," Steve says, scrubbing his hands up and down his face. "I know it's something we've already talked about." 

"Okay, see, the key here is that you skipped over the part where you say whatever _it_ is, so you're talking about it like you already mentioned it and I'm over here still lost." Your thumbs move in little circles just under his hip bones, right where he bends. Now that Steve's said all that—about seeing Bucky's dick, about having talked about this before—you're pretty sure you know exactly what the issue is. But it feels important that Steve says it. Again, you guess. 

This smile is weaker than all the ones before. "I know you know what I'm talking about, Sam. It's me, your boyfriend, the dickless wonder. We've been together long enough I know when you're being coy." 

"Dickless nothing. You have more dicks than any man I've ever met." Which wasn't true when you met, considering all Steve had was the Penis of Patriots, but his collection has expanded and improved all in the name of your combined pleasure, and now the Dildo of Homeland Security lives in a glass display box on Steve's dresser top, right where you first spotted it. (Yes, it was you who bought the display box.) 

Steve can't help but laugh. "Okay, but how many men have you met that are paying that much money per dick?" 

"You're paying for quality," you counter. You know you're derailing yourself a little bit, because if you keep talking about Steve's dicks, you're gonna wanna, you know, check in on them. Make sure Steve's keeping inventory of them, giving them enough exercise, being a generally responsible owner. Make him give you a demonstration of as much. Sure, you just came an hour and change ago, and sure, you're almost forty, but you're allowed to have a libido now and again. 

Focus, Sam. Focus. This is important. 

"I just," Steve says, cupping one side of your face and fixing you with soft blue eyes, "don't want you to feel like you have to do this poly thing because you're obligated to stay with me, especially if Bucky, you know. Satisfies you more." 

"For a dude everyone considers to be so virginal, your world sure does revolve around sex, you know that, Steve?" you say, putting your hand over his as you chuckle. "You really think I would leave you just because Bucky's hung like—well." You shouldn't finish that sentence. Not now, not with Steve, anyway. "You think I would leave you over something that superficial, like you couldn't buy one the same shape and size and put it on whenever you felt like it?" 

"It's not the same, and you know it. It's not—it's not really _mine_." Steve's really hooked on this, and now you're starting to go in exasperating circles. 

"Listen, we could go around and around on this carousel for hours, until Bucky comes in here because his ass wants a snack and we're hogging the kitchen, but do you really wanna do that?" You put both your hands on Steve's shoulders, gripping firm, like maybe that'll help get the idea across better. 

"Bucky has snacks in his room," the little shit you call a boyfriend replies. 

"Steve!" You give his shoulders a shake. "Can you really not accept that I don't _care_ about who's packing what? I'm just happy to have both of you! And your ass better not leave _me_ out of some dick-inspired martyr complex, or I'll be real upset!" 

"I—I wouldn't!" _Now_ Steve is indignant. 

"Okay? So neither would I!" You throw your hands up, staring Steve down. "I'm not in this relationship conditionally, Steve. Or well, I am," you say, considering the lessons you learned as a younger, much more foolish man, "but they're conditions like you not saying some racist shit or trying to hit me, and so far so good. So you can relax on that point." 

"I would never," Steve says, but he snorts because really, he would never. He puts his arms around your waist, clasping his hands at the small of your back, which you hope is a sign he's at least past thinking you're gonna dump him. 

"Okay, see? You're fine." You press in closer, putting your own arms around his shoulders. "You know you're always a man to me, right, Steve?" 

"I guess." 

"No, not _I guess_. Always, Steve." You move your head around until you've got his eye contact, and you hold it. "It's not about how you're shaped, or what you have or don't have." 

"I know." He looks away again, and you let go of his shoulders just to turn his face back. 

"If you know so well, why are we having this conversation again?" 

Steve flicks his eyes down, brows knitting together just that little bit, and you can't even call it a frown for how gentle an expression it is. It doesn't last long, broken by that contrite little smile he likes to trot out so much, and he says, "Stupid brain? Lots of assholes who came before you? Both?" 

"Let me get out my speech voice," you say, clearing your throat, and Steve laughs, re-settling his hands behind your waist to pull you that one iota closer. "You," you say, poking him in the chest, "are more masculine than all the no-account, ain't-shit men I've dated before you, and all of them had naturally attached dicks, and that was the _last_ thing that mattered." 

You spread your hands out over the tops of his pecs, and over his shoulders. "You are," you continue, "generous, and thoughtful, and protective, and that's what a man should be. You're strong, and not just because you could probably lift me over your head. You don't give in to these ideas that you need to be defined by—" You interrupt yourself with rapid blinks, and a memory of sharp words and blunt fists. "—By violence, or loudness, or how much more space you take up." 

Steve is so damn intuitive. This is supposed to be about his problem, and he takes you by the back of the head, pulls you down to cradle you to his expansive chest. "That's what makes you a man, to me," you mumble into the strained cotton of his T-shirt, but your speech is over, his broad hands rubbing up and down your back. 

After a few minutes, you clear your throat, and Steve lets you stand straight again. "You wanna talk about it?" he asks, his expression letting you know you don't have to. 

"You damn guidance counselor, I was the one trying to soothe you and _your_ feelings and you pull that shit," you say, but softly, holding hands with him. 

"You needed it," Steve replies, shrugging with a smile, and it's gratifying how much happier that one is. 

You pause, and you say, "Anyway, I won that fight, so it's not like it was all bad." 

For a second you think Steve is gonna pull you in for a round two of therapeutic hugging, but instead he just laughs. "I know a thing or two about that." He laughs a little more as he looks around the kitchen, and says, with a lopsided grin, "So you really don't mind that I don't—?" 

"Steve, if you don't get—!" You backhand him lightly in the shoulder, pouting your lips with wide eyes for the full melodrama. "You're lucky I love you for your personality, with an attitude _and_ a seasoning game like that!" 

You both freeze. 

"Alright, you know what, we're too old for that shit," you say, holding up your hands in self-admitted defeat. "I said it. I said the naughty word. We've only been going out—" You start counting on your fingers. "We've been going out some four-odd months, if you don't count all the dates before we went Official with a capital O, and I made an offhand remark about loving you. Oh well. Sue me." 

"I'm willing to count all the dates and make it six months," Steve says. "And suing you sounds like more trouble than it's worth. What if I just cook you dinner instead?" 

You let your silence be your answer, and then walk to the kitchen entrance to lean out toward the living room. "Bucky! Steve's threatening to cook dinner!" 

"No the fuck he's not!" Bucky shouts as he scrambles off the couch, practically sprinting for the kitchen on light feet. "Steve, you piece of shit, there's leftovers!" It's great, because he has no context, and he doesn't even ask for it. Bucky's presence breaks up all the emotion fogging up the kitchen, and Steve just laughs some more while Bucky fixes him a plate and tells him to either learn some new tricks or stop trying. 

It's a strange sort of new harmony the three of you fall into. In some ways, it doesn't feel any different from before this latest talk, when you were going on all those dates with Bucky—it's a continuation, with nothing affirmed or official with Bucky. In most ways, though, it's a very different kind of _after_. 

Sex with Bucky is the dividing marker, and so is your success at finally driving it into Steve's fat head that he's not driving you off any time soon. What it means is there's no more tiptoeing, at least on purpose. Bucky still shies, sometimes, at showing affection in front of Steve, and sometimes Steve still acts like he doesn't know what to do with himself if he happens to come home after you've had sex with Bucky, but at this point you just accept that it's a feature of both their particular neuroses. No more speeches necessary. 

The month of December is full of everybody meeting everybody. You can't explain your relationship to anyone you're related to, considering there are enough pursed lips and muttering mouths over your bringing a white man (that's two strikes) to holiday functions—and that's without any of them knowing Steve is trans, because they absolutely do not need to know, especially certain uncles. Steve navigates the second round of dealing with the Wilson clan with aplomb, though, bottling up all his anxiety until you leave your mother's apartment in Harlem. You're glad you had your sister and some of your favorite cousins in your corner of the living room. 

Bucky's mother, on the other hand, learns from her son's big mouth that you're dating him _and_ his best friend, and she takes it surprisingly well. "I've lived in New York all my life," is all she offers for explanation, as if there aren't bigots and other close-minded individuals who have never so much as left Queens, but you'll take it. She's Jewish, so she doesn't celebrate Christmas, per se, but her late husband got her in the habit of getting the family together around this time of year, so she likes to keep up the tradition. It's a decent pretext to get her kids to visit, anyway, she says, with a warm smile at Bucky and his sister, whom you also get to meet. You learn so much more about Bucky in the couple of hours you spend around Becca. 

Presents are kind of a weird affair, because you didn't know Bucky doesn't really do Christmas presents—of course not, why would he?—and it's awkward when you hand him a wrapped copy of Fallout 3, but he accepts it with a kiss thank you anyway. You get Steve a slick new pair of Nikes, because you think they'd look good and also you're tired of him wearing his over-designed generic workout shoes outside when he's with you. Steve gets you the jacket you've been privately lusting after, which means he's been sneaking peeks at your browsing history, which means you should probably have a talk with him, but _damn_ , this jacket looks and feels luxurious. 

On New Year's Eve you and Steve have celebratory sex—as if you need an excuse—but when Steve is passed out post-orgasm, you tell yourself Bucky shouldn't get left out on New Year's Eve, of all nights. You drag yourself down the hall and into his bed, where he's sleeping off the vodka he drank hours ago, and a couple whispers later he's fumbling himself awake to fuck you, too. 

That becomes kind of a dividing marker, too. None of you really discuss it, but suddenly it's not Sam and Steve and then Sam and Bucky, but Steve and Sam and Bucky. You'd tried sitting altogether on the couch before, tense with purpose, but now it happens organically, each boyfriend—is that what Bucky is, now? Especially since you've met his mother?—cuddled up to each of your sides, or you get to lay across both their laps. 

There are some nights where you repeat New Year's Eve, and you get to note the contrast in their physicality, like how Steve likes to sit up so he can fuck from his core, dipping down when he wants to kiss you, but Bucky likes to wrap his body around yours to keep as much contact as possible, regardless of his angle of entry. You tell Steve, one night, that you feel spoiled, and where last month he might have given you some kind of smiling front while he worked through his feelings by himself, now he just kisses your cheek and tells you it's just what you deserve. 

Your lease is up at the end of January. You're having this great time having two relationships together—or one relationship with two men, you're not sure anymore how to put it—but bills are tighter than ever, your income diminished without art school gigs to supplement it, and you didn't tell Steve or Bucky your internet got turned off. (You didn't tell anyone, actually, because you bet Rhodey would have just paid your bill off and then you'd have your internet back, but not your dignity.) That also means that you're updating your blog kind of haphazardly from your phone, and that's a lot harder. Your fridge is empty a lot, but you fix that by reminding Bucky how much you love his cooking and taking home leftovers. 

You're trying not to think about that whole mess as you sit between Bucky and Steve, with some Food Network show or another playing on Netflix. Bucky thinks if Steve watches enough Chopped, he'll pick up how to cook on the fly, but you know he's wrong, you just don't want to dash his dreams. Steve has his arm around you, with your back laid against his ribs and your head laid against the swell of his shoulder, and your legs are draped over Bucky's lap, where his arm rests when he's not gesticulating wildly at the screen. 

"You're staying the night again, right?" Bucky asks, while the judges talk amongst themselves about whatever special challenge this episode is about. Bacon, it looks like. You're over it. 

"Am I really gonna get on the train at this hour?" you snort, glancing at your phone. It's like eleven something. You've had sex, you've had food, and you're wearing pajamas from the drawer you've now also overtaken in Steve's dresser. You're the immovable object now. "I've got on pajamas. What kind of monster—?" 

"I was just asking, relax," Bucky says, running his hand over the mountains that your knees make, though he lingers on your thighs. 

"At this point Sam is basically moved in with us," Steve says with a chuckle, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "He's got space in my closet and a whole drawer in my dresser." 

"He's got a side of my bed," Bucky says, "and three beers in the fridge. And what's his favorite leftovers?" 

"Listen," you start, but they're already doing the thing. 

"Mac and cheese," they say in unison, cackling at each other. 

"I feel targeted," you complain, while Bucky does some impression of you saying _husband hunting food_. "Listen!" 

"At this point you really should just move in with us, Sam," Steve says, smiling broad and sincere. "It'd be a good move, financially, for all of us." 

"And you're here all the time anyway," Bucky adds, kneading one of your calves. 

"Oh, are those the only reasons?" you huff. "Because you want me to pay up?" 

"Yeah," Bucky says, even as Steve opens his mouth to probably say something sweet to counterbalance the jokes. "Those are the only reasons. Not like we like you a lot, or anything." 

"Not like we think you're the best thing to happen to a couple of slobs like us," Steve says, picking up where Bucky left off, even though Bucky is the only slob on this couch. "Really, Sam, when's your lease up?" 

This is the definition of _too good to be true_ , but you answer anyway. "End of this month. Landlord said I could renew, but, uh—" 

"Fuck that," Bucky says, snorting. "Just actually move in with us." 

"I have furniture I like," you protest, but it's weak, and both men can tell. It's not like any of it is heirloom. All of it is a mishmash of IKEA, Craigslist, and shit you dragged in off the street. You'd rather fall asleep next to a warm body than keep your fucking Hemnes bed you could always get again, technically. 

So in the morning, with Bucky's arm still wrapped around your waist, you sit up in bed and you call the landlord's office to declare your intent to vacate, or whatever the official terminology is. That's what you use on the phone, and that's what they accept, so you guess it's fine. And once you've extricated yourself from Bucky's sleeping death grip, you open up your laptop—okay, that's been here too, you really do basically live here—and start making arrangements for a moving van. You'll have to go back to Bed-Stuy to take pictures for Craigslist sales posts, but this is still a start. 

Sharon and Natasha agree to help you with the move. Natasha knows some Russian guys with a van, because of course she does, but Bucky knows some Romanian guys with a van, and they work themselves up into a full argument before you can even interrupt and tell them you don't need any of their shady mystery men because you got yourself a U-Haul and you know how to drive, it's fine. You just need everybody's help on actual moving day, getting boxes and bags and whatever else down the stairs and loaded into the van. With no furniture, all your belongings should fit into the van, provided everybody played Tetris at least once in their life. 

Bucky and Steve are on packing detail, though, helping you sort everything into piles of what you'll keep, what you'll sell (the smallest pile because time is so short), what you'll donate, and what you'll straight up throw away. You've been in this apartment since you came back from DC and your embarrassing breakdown living with Rhodey. For your donation to Out of the Closet you compile the majority of your books, cooking implements, dishes, silverware, and a very slim selection of clothes you _suppose_ you don't wear anymore and you _suppose_ you could bless some lucky starchild with. You keep the baking dish your mother gave you when you came back to New York, among other things, and some books— 

"What is it?" Steve asks as he walks up from behind, rubbing your back in his approach. 

"Nothing," you say, shaking your head with half a smile. "Riley gave me this book." You pull it off the shelf, pushing dust off the top of its pages with your index finger. _The People Could Fly._ Riley was a big believer in physical representations of memories, and your mother couldn't remember what had happened to the copy she'd read to you and your sister as children. (Not that it'd come along until you were seven or so, but you'd consider that early enough to still be formative.) So he'd bought you a new copy after you made wistful mention of it more than a few times, and you'd thanked him with a laugh. 

"Then you should keep it," Steve says, kissing your cheek as he tugs your waist closer. "Want me to put it away for you?" 

"Yeah, baby, thank you." You let Steve pull it from your lax hands, and keep your eyes focused on the mostly-empty bookshelf while he walks away from you. You give your head another shake, this time to clear it, and head toward your bedroom. "I'm gonna start on my bedroom closet," you call behind you. 

"Got it, babe," Steve calls back from where he's kneeling in a pile of boxes with Bucky. "Let me know if anything heavy falls on you." 

"Wow, thanks," you mutter as you enter what's left of your bedroom. Everything is stripped, and the dresser—which you're not selling or donating, your aunt is coming to get it tomorrow—is emptied, but you still have to take all the clothes out of your closet and lay them in garbage bags. You don't want to take them off the hanger, either, so you're going to have to be careful about it, and tie the hangers in bunches. And that's not even mentioning everything _else_ in the closet. 

The clothes are first, because that makes sense. You're glad Steve's not in the room to make fun of you as you make absolute sure to keep them in the same order as you have them in the closet, with four garbage bags for four seasons of clothing. Wanda has sent you samples since the show (and you've agreed to walk for her spring collection coming up), and you put those in their own bag that then goes into the fall bag. Steve _and_ Bucky would mock you for that move, but whatever, they're your clothes. 

With your clothes sorted, you start to climb into the back of the closet, and you can't believe how deep this closet is. You should be making closeted gay jokes back here. You should be looking for Narnia, if you could see past all your sneezing in the dust. You're pretty sure this closet was, in fact, the entire reason you took this apartment. 

There are plenty of shoe boxes that correspond to most of your shoes—like hell you would throw out the boxes to your Yeezys, especially when getting the light grey pair almost turned into a fight with some sneakerhead _already wearing a pair_ —and some beat-up Home Depot boxes with no useful labeling on them. You pull out the shoe boxes because that's a clear cut task, pairing style numbers on the sides of them to the shoes they belong to and reboxing as neatly as you can. Boxless orphans get lined up by the door to await whatever box Steve can bring you to cram them together. 

The mystery boxes all the way at the back are like your reward for putting away all your shoes. They're taped poorly, and you can tell you wrote on them once, but then took a jumbo Sharpie or something to all the writing and blocked it out without writing anything new. Your past self was real unhelpful. 

You peel the tape off the first one, and when you pull open all four flaps, what you find is records. Not so many that you can't catch a glimpse of the first cover, but enough that you have to pull it out to get a good look at it. 

"Oh man," you murmur to yourself, letting a smile curl the corners of your mouth as you pull the record out, with your elbows steadying the box on your thighs. The lime green swooping font spelling out _The Stylistics_ , the four men with afros about as high as the grass they lay in—this was one of your first records. You remember buying it from one of the record shops that used to populate the lower east side with allowance money. Secondhand, not as much of a popular genre in 1992, so not too big of a price tag, either. You'd had to be accompanied by your older cousin Terrence, and you remember him trying to tell you to just give him your allowance for McDonald's instead. He wasn't shit then, and he carries on the legacy today, but you're not allowed to say that at family gatherings even now. 

You start to put the record aside, but the records in the box shift with the absence of just one stupid sleeve, apparently, and with your weight leaning in a new direction your elbow isn't enough to keep the box in place on your lap. It goes tumbling to the floor, spitting out records even as it keeps sliding across the hardwood, and the topmost record—the one that had been right behind The Stylistics—falls out the most, cracks right into four pieces, all of different sizes. You curse as you chase them, hoping that broken record is something stupid, like maybe some ABBA record that somehow lost its way into your collection. 

It's not. 

Your breath hitches, makes a traffic jam in your throat. 

Your fingers of one hand touch the record sleeve, and the others brush the biggest piece of the vinyl itself, but they feel numb. Like they belong to someone else. 

_Riley only sings when the train is in the station, drowned out by screaming wheels against the rails but still loud enough for only you to hear. He sings What's Going On? in those snatches of time, just for you, with a voice hammered into purity by choir practice at his black mother's church._

Your blood is sludge in your veins, as much as it's lightning, buzzing through your muscles and seizing them up until it hurts. You can't make a sound. 

_"I know you felt bad because you broke your dad's copy," Riley says as you slide your thumbs under the last piece of tape on the wrapping paper and reveal the record inside. A copy of What's Going On? still shrink-wrapped, but your music nerd ass can tell it's from the 70s. Not a real early pressing or anything, but old enough that it's on par with the copy you dropped._

_"Felt bad" was an understatement of grand proportions. You dropped your dead father's record, the very same one that got you through grieving him, and for an hour you wished you were dead, too. You told your mother and expected a tongue-lashing; she told you it was just a thing, and what was more important were your good memories of him. Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one that had broken the record._

_"Happy birthday, honey." You meet Riley in a kiss over the record, but it doesn't go very far because you can't stop smiling._

Now you're making a sound, but it sounds distant, and it's because it's the sound of your lungs at war with your brain, trying to suck in air while you're busy hating yourself. You gather the record sleeve to your chest, and you try to pick up the vinyl shards, too, but they just fall to the floor again, and each clatter resounds in your chest like a gunshot. 

_They ask you to identify the victim because Riley's mother has fainted. When they peel back the sheet you scream_

Air finally fills your lungs again, and comes back out again as

_because Riley is shattered, not like your father's record but like a person who was in a fatal car accident, which is what he is, which is what he was_

a cry that starts out small but grows, until it's the only thing you can hear, louder than your pounding heartbeat, and you hear

and you hear the thunder of feet across creaking wood floors, coming from the living room straight to you, you hear the thuds of heavy knees surrounding you, and at first you flinch when the first hand touches you but it's just, it's just, it's just Steve, here he is on your right and here's Bucky on your left. They hold you and your shaking body from both sides, and they don't take the detritus from your arms. 

"Sam," Steve whispers, "I've got you. We've got you." 

"It's okay," Bucky says, halfway muffled by the way he puts his face into your shoulder. "It's okay, it's okay." 

You still can't speak, but they wait, stroke your back and your shoulders and your arms until you can, gasping and swallowing. "I broke—I broke—" 

"Let me see it," Steve says, holding out a hand with authority. You don't know what he thinks he can do but you uncurl your stiffened arms, and he takes the record sleeve from them. He gives the sleeve to Bucky and gives your back an extra rub before he gets up to collect the individual pieces of the record. You think you see Bucky inspecting the sleeve in your peripheral vision. "We'll deal with this later, okay?" he says, showing you that he's putting the pieces into the sleeve that's being held up by Bucky. "But you come first." He settles in next to you again. 

You don't know how long they sit like that with you. But you relax, again, find your humanity, again. By the time you sigh and start to shift your tingling legs, the sun has filled your room completely. 

"Riley gave me that record," you say, finally, your voice full of gravel. "To replace my father's copy after I broke it after _his_ death." You can't help but snort. "It'd be kind of poetic if I didn't hate it so much." 

"It doesn't change anything," Steve says, because he always has something to say, but Bucky stays quiet. "The way you felt about Riley—" 

Bucky interrupts just by getting up, pushing himself up ass first like a toddler and exiting the room without another word. "Bucky?" Steve frowns, and you can feel sudden nerves humming under his skin, as much as he visibly tries to suppress them. 

"I'll be back," Bucky says from the living room. "Don't go anywhere." The front door slams behind him. 

"Okay," Steve says, frowning harder, then shrugging deep and dramatic. Forcing himself to be over it. 

He does a good job, too, because he goes right back to telling you that everything is okay. A lot of his words sound like your mother's, but where your mother sounded dismissive or tired or like she just didn't get it, Steve finds the way to connect to you. And sure, Riley believed in—what did you call it before? Physical representations of memories?—but he never believed they were more important than people. If he could have seen you having a panic attack over pieces of jagged plastic, he would have told you that. 

Bucky still isn't back after an hour, so Steve cleans up the records and helps you get back to packing. It goes slower without Bucky, and you text Bucky that whatever he thinks he's doing, it better be good, but you get no response. 

Some five hours after he left, Bucky returns, looking about the same as he did before. But he has something, a little black plastic bag dangling from two fingers, and when you notice it he holds it out. 

"What's—?" Whatever's inside is small, light, rectangular. You reach to accept it, and start to open the bag up. 

"I know it's not a record," Bucky says, "but it's the closest I had. And since you got me a present last month and all, uh—" 

It's the tape. The copy of _What's Going On_ that was the only cassette in the glove box of his cab, the one that kept him alive. It's _his tape._ You let the plastic bag fall to the floor as you wrap your hand around the plastic case, and you feel tears pricking your eyes. 

"Just, uh, if this is some kind of curse you have going on, I don't feel like dying anymore, okay?" Bucky says, and you throw your arms around him. His one arm wraps around you in turn, pressing you closer, and he kisses the side of your face. 

"Thank you," you whisper, kissing his face back with ferocity. Then it's not just his face you're kissing, and you don't stop kissing him until you hear Steve laughing from the doorway of the bedroom. 

"What, did you miss him that much? I'm not _that_ boring, am I, Sam?" Steve says, but there's a light in his eyes that tells you it's good natured. 

"You're so damn dramatic," you groan, and you break away from Bucky so Steve can get kissed, too. 

"I thought we were packing," Bucky says, except Bucky missed five hours of packing so now it's dinner time, and delivery is on Bucky because he's the one who was gone, even if the reason for it was sweet. Steve covers the tip because he can't help himself. 

At the end of the week you get to watch Steve and Sharon compete for who carries the most boxes and the heaviest boxes, with Bucky trailing in a consistent third with his one very strong arm. All three of them keep telling you to relax and sit back so you do, except when it comes to your bags of clothes, which is when you bark them all away so you can delicately lay them on top of everything. Natasha stays with the van to ward off traffic cops, fiddling with her phone and sucking on an iced coffee in the dead of winter. You didn't know they _made_ iced coffee in January. 

Your first day of officially living in Sheepshead Bay happens to be one when Bucky and Steve both have off from work, so on a whim—Steve's whim, actually—the three of you bundle up and head into Manhattan to the ice rink set up at Bryant Park. You don't admit it until you're actually on the ice, but you're a shit skater, and of _course_ Steve is amazing at it. He only doesn't do tricks because it's prohibited in public rinks. 

You kind of hope Bucky sucks at it, too, but even with his off-balance body he takes off at a decent pace, dogged pumps of his legs that let him keep up with the pack. Meanwhile, you cling to the barrier and mentally curse out both the men in your life. You should have told Steve to shove ice skating up his ass, stupid rom com shit, you would have been fine just going to see a movie or something. Or sex. Sex is something you're good at _and_ it's free. Now you look stupid, and in public, to boot. 

Steve comes to an easy stop next to where you're struggling, smiling with his hands on his hips. "Need a hand, babe?" 

"I need you to get out of my face, that's what I need," you snap, sliding forward another shaky foot along the barrier, back toward the exit. 

"Come on, Sam," Steve says, holding a hand out. "Let me take the man of my dreams for a spin." 

"I'll just fall in the other direction," you say, grumbling as you slide another little bit. 

"Okay," Bucky says, from fucking nowhere, "then I'll be on the other side." 

You hook your arm through Steve's left and Bucky's only arm, muttering the whole way that this is just a different way for you to look foolish, and you're still gonna find a way to fall down, but their promises to support you hold true. With two huge, strong men to either side of you and basically holding you up, you're able to find your rhythm on the ice. They start to drift a little when you get a little confidence, but you murmur, _Don't leave me,_ and they come back in, holding you tight. 

You look up at Steve, and he looks back down at you instantly, smiling without breaking his stride. There's love in his eyes, pure and real. You look at Bucky, much closer to your eye level, and he glances at you, says _What?_ but without bite, a bashful little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

It's a strange thing you've gotten yourself into. But you love Steve, and you can already see you're on the path to loving Bucky. The journey here, to this moment, being held by two people so devoted to you, may have been a hell of a ride, but god, you're not sorry. 

Really, you don't think you've been this happy, not in a long time. And you're pretty sure Steve and Bucky feel the same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always feel like my last lines are bad or corny or both but i feel borderline ok about this one. anyway. that's it. it's over. i can't believe how long this fic got, i can't believe how many people have commented and messaged me about this, i can't believe i made actual new friends over this fic?? i want to thank each and every one of you who stuck it out with me as i figured this fic out, and i want to thank all my future readers coming into this as a finished product. you're all so wonderful, and so good. thank you, thank you, thank you
> 
> come hang out with me now on [tumblr](http://softsams.tumblr.com/)


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